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Glowering so intently
at the cloud of black diesel smoke enveloping the Mercedes, Olaf almost missed the turnoff. But Sergei yelled to him that he should turn, and, at the last minute, Olaf managed to cut hard onto the smaller, rougher access road. For the next kilometer, the Mercedes shuddered across ruts and washboard gravel, the road rising, twisting, and narrowing.

After they'd traveled most of three kilometers, Sergei saw the large black-and-white signs designating the beginning of a no-stopping zone. Here, trucks and jeeps from a Turkish military convoy haphazardly lined the road. Near a makeshift village of scattered cottages, Turkish soldiers in camouflage, packing weapons, clustered in small groups, smoking cigarettes or just kicking dirt. Judging from their bored, stupid expressions, it was an exercise. This time they are only playacting at war and terror
,
Sergei thought.

He glanced down again at the black bag. Perhaps it would have been wise to hide it in the security compartment of the Mercedes. Too late to second-guess himself.

A sharp report sliced the morning stillness. Then another. Then continuous—the unmistakable din of gunfire. Sergei's heart stammered, reacting as if he'd been caught on a street in Moscow ducking a burst of semiautomatic fire. That's how it had been back in the 1990s, when so many died. Even now, knowing the gunfire was almost certainly the product of a military drill, instinct screamed at him to have Olaf speed off the road and take cover. With trembling hands he reached for the pack of cigarettes tucked into the Mercedes's ashtray. Hopefully those stupid
sukas
were aiming
away
from the road!

A dusty beige Fiat raced past, and Sergei pushed up his chin in an ugly gesture. “
B'lyad!
What's your hurry? Eventually we all end up in the same place!”

•   •   •

Pauk passed
a landmark sign, and he slowed the Fiat on the approach to the castle. From this distance, it reminded him of the castle at Disneyland Paris.

So the Russian was meeting someone, because he certainly wasn't sightseeing.

And Pauk was arriving just minutes ahead of his target. No way to select the best location for a kill shot. He would just have to improvise.

Was the Russian's associate here already? No way to know.

Pauk counted sixteen tourist vehicles parked along the road and at the dead end near the visitors' center. He nosed the Fiat around the curve and braked facing the direction he'd just traveled.

Get in, get the job done, get out.

He opened his door to the stutter of gunfire echoing from the surrounding mountains. A few tourists stopped and craned their necks or peered around anxiously. But most visitors, like Pauk, ignored the noise.

Outside the car, he hitched his satchel easily over one shoulder. No one would guess he was packing the disassembled body of his customized Dragunov sniper rifle along with the Mark IV scope and the suppressor. The hollow-point rounds fit in a special ankle holster he had designed for efficiency and easy concealment. In twenty seconds he could assemble or disassemble his weapon—in the dark, in frigid temperatures, in drenching rain. He glanced back to the road, scanning for a first view of the Russian's black SUV.

Walking briskly for about fifteen meters, Pauk stopped to quickly study the tourist map posted outside the visitors' center. It revealed the layout of the thousand-year-old castle: ramparts, restored buildings, and ruins. A primary trail led up the mountain to the middle and upper wards, barracks, chapel, and the royal apartments. A secondary trail cut through a tunnel, offering an alternate, longer route. There were other tributaries. A tower marked the distant apex of the mountain.

Where was the Russian heading? He wore his fat like a wintering bear. Certainly not to the tower at the top.

A group of old women in hiking boots walked ahead of Pauk. They carried cases and easels.
Artists,
he thought, knowing that his sharply opinionated landlady, Madame Desmarais, would add
“Amateurs!”
He tugged his green cap low over his face, joining, and soon passing, the group. He would find a place to watch and wait, and then he would track the Russian.

Almost without any conscious effort, his mind had already factored wind speed and direction, egress—and soon it would add the effect of distance and visibility. Calculations he would check on the Mark IV's MILDOT reticle in order to choose the most efficient point for the shot.

He glanced down the trail toward the parking area. Ah, yes, the Russian had brought his old-dog bodyguard, and they were both headed toward the same trail where Pauk now walked.

•   •   •

Sergei gazed up
the craggy slope at the ruins of the castle and sighed. Olaf strode ahead on the trail, but already Sergei needed to stop to catch his breath. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. Where had Sergei the Strong gone? He would have to get back to his training again—those eight-mile runs in the morning before the heat. Yes, when this was over . . .

He'd been puzzled at first by the handful of people scattered among the rocks and tough vegetation. Then he realized they must be artists, painting this formidable landscape. He would like to try his hand at painting the castle someday, when he could finally leave his family business to younger, stronger men.

He'd chosen to meet the American at the Queen's Window because, on an off day like this, he reasoned traffic would be light, hikers would be lazy. But it was too far up the mountain. It had seemed much closer when he'd brought his son here three years ago.

There were some who might condemn Sergei as a traitor. But those same men had sold Russia for scrap, and now they were dividing up the spoils among themselves. He dug his hand into the bag, his fingers grazing the cool, smooth body of the Makarov. At least they would never call Sergei Tarasov a coward.

At 1321
—already six minutes behind Sergei's abruptly appointed meeting time—Vanessa accelerated the VW along the final approach to the castle and the foreboding sight of upthrust granite and the ancient stone fortress sheltered within and among the rugged scarps.

She slowed as she entered the parking area far below Saint Hilarion's highest tower—passing a beige Fiat 500 that could have been the car driven by her pursuer on the old highway. But then she noticed a second Fiat, this one yellow and white, and she reminded herself just what a common make and model it was, especially on the island.

She pulled the VW parallel to a battered Peugeot, braked, and then backed neatly into one of the few parking spaces left in the lot—already sliding her FN Five-Seven from beneath her seat. This time, she wasn't taking any chances.

Where the hell is your SUV, Sergei?

She secured the pistol in her waistband and stepped out into full sun, heat rising off the pavement in waves. Tugged the brim of her navy blue baseball hat over her sunglasses, scanning the parking area and the surrounding hillsides. No sign of Sergei outside the restored gatehouse, the only entrance between otherwise impenetrable Byzantine walls.

No Sergei anywhere in sight.

Was it fitting that he'd chosen a Crusader redoubt, a last stronghold for the armies of the faithful as they prepared to invade the Holy Land and rid it of infidels?

She walked quickly toward the gatehouse, sucking in a breath as she passed Sergei's black Mercedes obscured between a touring van and a bright green BMW with bicycles mounted on the roof. As far as she could discern through the tinted windows, his vehicle was empty.

•   •   •

A light,
warm breeze
scuffed across the rocky outcropping where Pauk lay prone with his rifle behind a knobby pine. From his vantage point, roughly four hundred meters off the trail, and six hundred meters from the large, ornate window opening, he had a view of the main trail leading to the royal apartments. He'd watched the Russian bodyguard take point for a good half-kilometer while his boss huffed his way among ruins. When the bodyguard reached the royal gallery—several minutes ahead of his boss—he quickly scouted the various apartments before returning to the main gallery, clearly keeping a watchful eye.

Making it easy for Pauk to choose his hide.

When the Russian had finally reached the royal gallery, he headed straight for the ornate Queen's Window—and Pauk almost pulled off a shot. Was the Russian stupid enough to choose the most open spot in these ruins for a clandestine meeting?

But the Russian's luck held this once—saved by the half-dozen painting students passing through with their easels. And when the Russian found no one waiting, he scurried back through the apartments to peer down the mountain and the trails, presumably looking for his associate.

But now the artists were gone and the Russian had turned around again, and he was on his way back to the Queen's Window. His bodyguard, taking cover with his pistol tucked ready inside his jacket, alternately tracked his boss and scrutinized the surrounding ruins and hills, his gaze crawling over Pauk more than once.

Pauk's long fingers moved unerringly along the scope of the Dragunov. A wasp hovered, darting toward his face. He remained oblivious even as a snake as long as his rifle slithered within arm's reach.

The Russian disappeared into one of the common rooms surrounding the gallery. Fifty paces until he reached the window and appeared within its carved frames. Pauk anticipated the moment the Russian would peek out at the view of the distant Mediterranean, a rippling sheet of blue—an irresistible vista.

Through the precision scope, he saw the Russian's shadow before he saw him. Saw his fist pressing possessively against the black leather bag he carried. Saw the Makarov in his other hand.

He eased the scope upward until he had a bead between the Russian's eyes.

Energy coursed through Pauk, just grazing the tips of his fingers onto the trigger at the same instant the Russian tripped and stumbled out of sight.

A distant volley
of shots broke the hot stillness of the day, and Vanessa winced internally.

Part of the exercise she'd seen on her way through the Turkish military zone?

She stepped onto pavement, hesitating in front of a prominent sign displaying a map of accessible trails leading up and through the sprawling castle ruins—including the 732-meter summit and Prince John Tower. She remembered that the Queen's Window was located in the middle ward, in the large gallery near the royal apartments. Although there were several spurs, a main trail crisscrossed the grounds, ruins, and restored sections, eventually traversing the high, formidable walls erected in the twelfth century.

She stared up at the stone fortress; against the hard cobalt sky, the ramparts seemed to grow organically from the harsh, rocky hillside. She took a moment to grind the soles of her running shoes against granite to shed grime and then passed under the shadow of the parapets onto castle grounds. She moved quickly, but not so quickly that she would alarm the smattering of midweek visitors. The pistol pressed uncomfortably against her ribs.

She picked up the pace, jogging lightly past the stables where crusading soldiers had garrisoned with their horses in the lower ward. She scanned the visible portion of the trail ahead: a group of college-age students, two elderly women setting up easels near a second gatehouse, and a heavyset man busily filming his sunburned wife or girlfriend. Vanessa had to cross another hundred meters of steepening grade before she'd reach the first buildings of the middle ward.

•   •   •

Pauk stretched long
in his hide, viewing through the scope the ruins of what had once been royal apartments, fingers itchy. He had his target and the bodyguard to deal with now, and whomever else they were meeting. Of course, more tourists would amble up the path soon. He grunted, a rare expression of his impatience. Time to finish the job.

And fate cooperated. The Russian lumbered toward the window. Pauk inhaled, then paused his breath and squeezed his finger gently . . .

This time the Russian did not trip. The bullet hit him between the eyes, and he fell back against the blood-spattered stone pillar. The panicked bodyguard fired off a wild shot, and it went so wide, so high, Pauk didn't even blink. He watched as the dead Russian—who had somehow remained eerily upright—crumpled to earth.

•   •   •

Echoing off rock,
the ruler-slap report of a rifle split the air and Vanessa flinched.

Long-range suppressed semiautomatic?

And now she lengthened her stride so she was running hard uphill, passing the students, one of whom was pointing excitedly across the canyon to a military convoy truck. But Vanessa was positive that wasn't the origin of the shot.

As she approached the arched, shadowy entrance to the church she heard another shot—pistol this time. She stumbled on rough stones, almost tumbling down the half-dozen steps to the lower level. She managed to brace herself, but not before her ankle twisted and she sucked in a painful breath.

More shots sounded, pistol again, three quick, tight explosions coming from nearby.

She took a tentative step, and her ankle held her weight so she pushed her pace again, sucking in surprisingly dank, moldy air; the only sunlight was reaching thin fingers through crevices into the subterranean passage. She was confused by the mazelike ruins, but she thought she remembered this passage would lead to a stairway entrance up to the royal apartments.

She turned a corner, almost colliding with three young tourists, murmuring quick apologies in Greek and Turkish as she left them behind.

She heard voices, but the passage opened now and split, and she couldn't remember which way led to the gallery and the window. But she dodged right instinctually and found herself between another tunnel-like passage and stone steps leading upward toward light. And suddenly she had her bearings—the gallery with the Queen's Window was at the top.

She slowed, stopping at the third step to keep her head out of sight. Feeling the butt of the FN Five-Seven, she waited for more shots. Almost a minute passed with nothing.

Vanessa crawled to the top step, pressed close to the granite wall. Quickly, she peeked over the landing stone. She couldn't see anything but the clear frame of the Queen's Window. She inched higher and saw a sleeve and the edge of a jacket. A body slumped over against the stone floor. Male, facedown, dark hair matted with blood.

Oh, God.