Chapter 1

The nearly white Mediterranean sun beat through the window and blanched the interior of the room. A canary trilled in the background as Nice` crossed to the windows and pulled the gauzy sheers closed to accommodate her guest, leaving the room still brightly lit, but no longer dazzling.

"Does it do that all the time?" Cynara asked pointing at the canary.

"Do what?"

"Make noise."

"That's not noise, that's music," laughed Nice`. "He's singing to you." She walked to the cage and reached in, stroking the little canary's chest feathers. She turned back to Cynara, "Come on upstairs. Help me decide which gowns to put into the charity auction."

"Sure." Cynara rose from the sofa, taking time to stretch before following Nice`. The stretch accentuated her height, close to six feet, and she towered over Nice`'s petite frame. They were extreme contrasts: Nice` was petite, had curly blonde hair, with dark eyes and olive skin; Cynara was tall, had waist length straight black hair, with strangely colored, nearly topaz, eyes and golden skin. Both beautiful, but very different.

They went upstairs and Nice` began pulling gowns out of the closet. The first, light blue with ruffled neckline and hem, she immediately threw onto the bed. "Hate it," she said, and pulled out a celery green satin. She held it up in front of herself and posed for Cynara.

"Hate it," said Cynara. Nice` tossed it onto the bed. Next was a Chinese red brocade and she posed again.

"What do you think?" she asked. "I've always liked this one."

"How long have you had it?" asked Cynara.

"Three years."

"Ditch it." It joined the others on the bed. As Nice` went into the closet for another gown, something far more interesting caught Cynara's eye and she walked over to the dressing table. When Nice` came out of the closet carrying a royal blue silk gown, Cynara held the picture out to her that had set on the table. "Who is this?"

"Oh, that's my br.....friend," Nice` said. She wasn't quite sure why she amended her statement, but felt that the less anyone knew about Michael, the better off he would be.

Cynara looked at it again. It was a snapshot of Michael on Nice`'s sailboat. He was smiling and his green eyes sparkled. The sea breeze had tangled his hair into tantalizing waves. "Is this airbrushed to the nth degree, or is he really that good looking?"

"Better, actually. It's not that good a photo, but I couldn't get him to sit still for another one."

"I think if I had a 'friend' that looked like that, I'd blow the picture up, hang it in the parlor, and brag. What's his name?"

"Michael."

"Michael what?"

Nice` held the gown up and pirouetted. "What about this one?" she asked.

Cynara accepted the misdirection and commented on the gown, but thought to herself, "Married." They went through the rest of Nice`'s closet and had accumulated a good collection for the auction by lunch time.

When Cynara left after lunch, Nice` returned to her bedroom and called Desi, the charity auction chairperson, to pick up the gowns. Before she left the room she walked back to the bed, pulled out the Chinese red brocade and hung it back in the closet.

At the foot of the stairs, she passed a maid and said, "Demitasse in the parlor, please." As the maid hurried off to comply, Nice` drifted to the front windows and opened the sheers. Dazzling or not, she preferred the light. The bay below reflected the bright sun and she squinted at the sparkling scene. The maid sat the demitasse on the table next to her and as Nice` turned, something registered as 'not quite right'. She sat on the sofa and reached for the cup. It was absolutely silent in the room.

She rose and ran to the canary's cage. It lay on the bottom of the cage, it's little feet up in the air. As she took it out of the cage, futilely massaging it's tiny chest, she bit her lip to keep from crying.

"....including everything you know, from Section One decisions and activities to whom the Admin's are sleeping with. You will mail it to this address," Michael said, handing the Florence address to Beidecker. "If anything urgent or unusual occurs, you will not wait until the end of the week, but will send the information immediately. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You will continue doing this forever. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You may be told to do something else. This is unlikely, but possible. If it occurs you will perform without question. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You will know the directive comes from me. It will be signed simply, 'Michael'. If I call you, I will simply say, "This is Michael." If your position with Section One is threatened, you will explain that in your reports. The threat will be eliminated. Both you and your position will be protected."

Beidecker said, "You are insane if you think you can get away with taking on Section."

"I strongly recommend you do not attempt to disobey. It has been tried before, but never successfully."

"I said, yes. I agree."

Beidecker leveled a look of loathing tinged with fear at Michael as he stepped back into the darkness and disappeared. Beidecker stood silently beside his car and wondered if anyone had ever blackmailed a Section substation chief before. He would continue to wonder, he certainly couldn't investigate the question without arousing suspicion.

As Michael drove off into the night he speculated on the success of having inducted Murch into his circle of informants several months ago. Not only had Murch convinced Section One that Eric had falsified information and thereby blunted their attention to Michael's organization, his later reports gradually worked Michael up the chain of command in Section. Now the Athens substation chief, Conrad Beidecker, a German by birth, had been added to the list. Michael's sphere of influence grew geometrically, each contact adding multiple new ones to the group. I wonder, he thought, if the man who caught a tiger by the tail thought he was successful.

He drove across town and parked his rental car in the airport parking lot. At the ticket counter he bought tickets to Heathrow. Marshall's horse, Thor's Vengeance, was running at Doncaster the day after tomorrow in his first official race. Doncaster would be a class one qualifying race in the flat race category, as opposed to steeple chase. Although not one of the famous stakes races, it was certainly respectable and the word was out that Marshall's stable had a hot horse. It would draw a crowd from the racing profession if not the general public. He didn't want to miss the big event, and Marshall wouldn't forgive him if he did.

************

Chapter 2

The track was less than perfect, in fact officially classified as a 'slow track'. While there was no longer water actually standing in puddles, the track was as soft and squishy as a glue pot. More than one owner looked glum. A brief but unexpected thunderstorm had erupted earlier in the day and thoroughly saturated the Doncaster Downs. Had it been anticipated, the field would almost certainly have been smaller with most of the horses who preferred a fast track having scratched.

Marshall however was grinning from ear to ear in Thor's stable while watching him being harnessed for the 5th race. The jockey had already left with the saddle to be weighed in. "Give them 'ell, Thor," he said scratching the stallion's neck. Thor was a big messy boy. He loved the mud.

He helped spread Thor's silks over him to walk him out of the stable for the 10 furlong, or 1 ˆ mile, race. The satin blanket was in Marshall's stable colors, green and gold, the colors of money. Most of the stable owners had silks with their coat of arms on them. So did Marshall's. He designed it himself: a big fake coat of arms with a huge $ on the shield. As he had told Michael, "f--- them if they can't take a joke." The comment had actually won a rare smile from Michael. He damn well better be here today, he had, thought Marshall. He would understand if Michael didn't show himself, but not if didn't come to watch the race.

The horses were led into the gates by their handlers. The course was a one mile track. The horses would run the track once then another ˆ track piece to make up the full 1 ˆ mile race. The jockeys were mounted, tense, and ready. From the stands the horses were nearly indistinguishable except for the jockeys' colors. The only exception was a big dappled gray, Stormy Day, in the 4th post position. He stood out in a field of bays. Thor was in the middle of the pack in the 6th position. The officials were in place. A bell rang. The gates flew open. The announcer cried, "They're off!"

The horses moved out in a tight pack through the first turn at the ˆ mile post. The grandstands were full and binoculars trained on the animals as the crowd rose to its feet. Michael could feel the vibration of the hooves as they swept past his position at the rail, like thunder transmitted through the ground instead of the air.

The pack began to loosen. Stormy Day pulled ahead by a neck halfway to the second turn with Blazer close behind. The rest bunched with Miner and Claybank trailing. By the time they reached the second turn the jockeys' colors were covered with mud and the big gray was starting to look like a bay.

By the third turn the field was somewhat strung out. Four horses were ahead of the field: Stormy Day, Blazer, Manager, and Directoire. In the center of the field were Thor, Fascination, Field Day, and Trooper. Still trailing were Miner and Claybank, but they were beginning their moves.

Manager and Directoire drew closer to Stormy Day and Blazer. Halfway past the turn, Blazer began to fall back. Miner and Claybank both reached the center of the field and were battling their way through. Field Day's jockey effectively blocked Claybank from the inside of the track and Claybank's jockey gave way and tried to cut over to pass him on the outside. Trooper and Miner were running nose to nose.

Thor and Fascination made their move on the same hoof beat. They passed the failing Blazer at the same time and threatened Manager's heels. Thor's superior size rammed between Manager and the inside rail and Manager's jockey gave way, veering right to find himself up against Fascination. Fascination was a filly and lighter weight than Manager, but her jockey brought his whip down and she jumped ahead just as Manager flinched. Michael, watching closely through his binoculars, couldn't be sure which horse Fascination's jockey had hit, and he wondered if there would be a penalty called later.

Directoire drew up side by side with Stormy Day and slowly inched up. He got a nose ahead and Stormy Day, who always ran best ahead of the field, seemed to be fading. Directoire's jockey saw the fourth turn ahead of him just as Thor and Fascination flashed past him like brackets of lightening.

Past the fourth turn and headed into the finish it was Thor and Fascination. Then it was Fascination and Thor. The crowd was in a frenzy. Normally subdued Brits waved their programs and screamed their favorite's name like Americans. Thor's greater strength began to show as he edged nose to nose with Fascination and drew slowly ahead.

Six paces from the finish line Thor surged forward in an amazing display of stamina and strength and shot through the finish line half a length ahead of Fascination. The muddy bay blurs flashed past Michael who had claimed and held his place at that prime position.

Michael who had been silently but tensely watching the race, allowed himself a broad smile. Now that was a horse race! He glanced to each side and found two men in derbies glaring at him as they tore up their tickets.

After his turn in the Winner's Circle, Thor was walked, groomed, and returned to his stable. Marshall collected his own winner's dues in grudging congratulations from some of England's blue bloods. Then he went to find Fascination's owner. That was one hell of a filly, that was.

"'ello. Fascination's owner 'ere?" he asked as he entered the stable area she was supposed to be in.

"Who wants to know, mate?" came a female voice with a strong Aussie accent.

"Thor's owner," he said.

A woman ducked from under the top half of a stall's Dutch door. She was a small, compact woman with blonde hair, going gray at the temples and stormy gray eyes. Heavily tanned from the outback's sun, she exuded a clean outdoor woman's confidence. She extended her hand, "I'm Heather Wilson, Fascination's owner."

Marshall shook her hand and held it just a scosh too long. "Damn fine filly."

She looked him straight in the eye. "Yes I am."

Marshall smiled. "The horse is OK too." They both laughed.

"At least you aren't one of those bloody blues," she said. "Thought I had that race nailed."

"Damn near did. Wasn't expecting her, I wasn't."

"Heather," called a man's voice from the other end of the barn. She glanced that direction and saw Fascination's trainer.

"Be right with you, Jack," she called back. "I have to go," she said to Marshall.

He handed her a card. She looked at it carefully and then slipped it inside her blouse neckline, tucking it under a bra strap.

"Call me if you're interested in breeding..........the horse," he said.

"I'll do that." She was still smiling as she walked away.

"Damn fine filly," he muttered as he walked to Thor's stall.

Standing in a shadow next to Thor's stall was Michael. Marshall beamed as Michael shook hands. "Looks like you won both races," Michael said, nodding at Heather's retreating and nicely compact backside.

"Fascination's owner," explained Marshall, looking serious.

"Sure," said Michael, allowing a tiny smirk to escape. Before Marshall could respond, Michael reached out and picked up a package that was balanced on the fence. "For the winner. It was a great race. Thor is a fine animal."

Marshall heartily agreed as he ripped the package open. The box fell to the ground as Marshall held up a magnificent harness. Leather, fine and soft as kid but strong, with solid gold buckles. On each buckle was stamped a tiny replica of Marshall's 'coat of arms', complete with a tiny $ in the center of each shield. He swung the gate open and stepped into Thor's stall. "'ere you go, big fella. Look at this." He slipped the harness onto Thor's head. It looked grand.

Marshall turned back to thank Michael, but Michael was gone.

************

Chapter 3

"Pull!" The skeet flew past from left to right as Nice` fired her shotgun. The skeet disintegrated.

"Pull!" she called again. This time two skeet were released, one from the left, one from the right. She hit them both and stepped back, breaking down the shotgun as she did. She removed the spent shells and tossed them into the trash container.

Her slacks caught on the weeds as she turned and walked back to the shelter, but her ankle boots were stable over the rough terrain.

"You're a good shot," said Desi Konstantinou. She was sitting on the bench inside the shelter with her back against the wall and her feet propped against a roof support.

"Better with a pistol," said Nice` as she and Desi picked up their guns and gear.

"Really?"

"Yes, I have a little target range set up in the basement."

"Oh, my. You're really serious about it."

Nice` laughed. "Not really. Several years ago I bought a little 22 caliber pistol. My brother saw it and wanted to know if I planned to annoy someone to death with it."

Desi grinned. "Well.....that's not much of a pistol."

"He said if I was going to learn to shoot I should do it right. He set up the range and taught me."

"And changed your pistol, I assume."

"First thing." They chatted companionably as they walked back to their cars.

"Why don't you join the Celebrity Shoot?" asked Desi.

"What's that?"

"Another of my charities like the gown auction for the hospital. This one is for the orphanage."

"Seem a little incongruous. Guns and kids."

"Whatever draws the money," Desi said standing next to Nice`'s little green Lamborghini convertible as Nice` got into it.

"Sure. Count me in," agreed Nice`.

"I'll call you with the schedule. There will be pistol, rifle and skeet shooting events. No reason you couldn't do more than one."

"Skeet and pistol," said Nice` firmly.

"Don't annoy anyone to death," Desi said by way of goodbye, snapping down Nice`'s door lock as she said it. Nice` grinned before she peeled off, waving goodbye over her shoulder. Desi was still smiling to herself as she walked over to her Rover. That's one good lady, she thought, nice but not boring.

That night in Sophia Michael's men crept through the brush and inched their way toward the heavily guarded building of Michael's main competitor in illegal arms. Ned hugged the ground, kept his butt down and slithered forward. Clarence approached from the rear of the building, jumping from shadow to shadow. Kevi sauntered up to the main entrance, weaving slightly. He stumbled, righted himself, and weaved on up to the guards.

"Halt!" ordered the guard.

"Where's Sluzy?" asked Kevi. "Slurzy," he amended. One more try, "Suzy."

The two guards looked at one another and laughed. "No Slurzy here, friend," said one of them.

"No Sluzy either," laughed the other.

Kevi leaned heavily against the building, "Sluzy gone?"

"Right. Sluzy's gone," said the first.

"You go too. Go find Slurzy," the second said, having a hard time controlling himself.

"Sluzy left me?"

"Right. She ran off with Spiro," said the first, holding his sides and letting his rifle dip.

"Spiro's a real stud," said the second, setting his rifle butt on the ground and leaning back against the building, laughing.

"No Sluzy," mourned Kevi.

"Right. No Sluzy," replied the guard as one of Michael's bullets cut him down. The other guard hadn't even registered shock before Michael's second bullet took him out. A suddenly sober Kevi caught their rifles before their owners hit the ground. He turned and ran toward the waiting van.

Ned and Clarence scrambled to the building roof and planted charges. Scrambled down again and ran for the brush. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

The remnants of the tin roof above the hidden armament supply rained down in shreds like hot sleet, slicing through the shrubs below. Michael counted. One. Two. Three. The munitions inside exploded. A furious fireball arched into the sky like a fiery monster hanging overhead and billows of flame reached out like arms along the ground to snatch at Michael's men. It missed.

Michael, pistol still in hand, and Marshall stood quietly watching from a distance. "Nice one," said Marshall.

"I'd rather have captured the munitions, but this leaves a stronger impression," agreed Michael, slipping his automatic into his shoulder holster.

They turned and walked away. The flames continued consuming the adjacent buildings, devouring everything they touched. A ravenous, insatiable beast.

"So how is Thor?" Michael asked as they reached the car.

"F*****g fine," said Marshall.

"And the filly?"

"F*****g fantastic."

They got into the car and drove away.

"You will do it and do it now or I will call my lawyers. I keep them on retainer just waiting for something like this to happen.

They're bored. When they're bored, they're feral. Do you want that?" asked Nice` in a soft voice. She listened to the response over the phone. "I didn't think so. I will hear from you by noon tomorrow then? " She waited again. "Fine. Goodbye." She clicked the cell phone off and glared at it.

Picking up her cool fruit drink she sipped it slowly as she looked down the slope of the hill and across the bay to the Therma_k_s K_lpos. She was sitting under a patio umbrella on the deck. Her feet, encased in rope sandals, were propped up on another chair. The male laughter from behind her was unexpected. She turned and her face lit up.

"Michael!"

He braced and caught her as she ran and jumped into his arms. He gave her a long hug and swung her around twice before setting her down. "Another one that thought 'nice' means 'pushover'?" he asked, still smiling.

"Apparently. I don't think he will anymore," she said.

"Who was it?" he asked as they walked toward the patio table.

"An ex broker," she said, emphasizing the 'ex', and dismissing him with a wave of her hand. As they seated themselves under the umbrella, she asked, "How is business?"

"Fine."

"Care to elaborate?" she asked.

"Successful. Everything is going as planned."

"And?"

"My employees are content."

"And?"

"And how are you, Nice`?" he asked, declining to comment further.

"Very good, actually. I tried your suggestion about 'good works' and I've met some very nice people."

"I was being sarcastic, but I'm glad it's turned out well. You have new friends?"

"Yes. Desi is terrific. Funny. Strong. Kind. I like her. Cynara..." she trailed off.

"Cynara?"

"She's interesting. Intelligent. Beautiful, you'd like that."

He smiled, "Men and women never seem to have the same opinion on that."

"It's a universal consensus. She's a little strange though." Nice` said.

"How so?" he asked as the maid set a cool drink down in front of him and left.

"You know, I'm not sure. Just a feeling I get sometimes when I'm with her. Something doesn't feel quite right," she said.

"Oh, look!" She said suddenly and pointed down the hill. They both stood and walked to the edge of the patio. A hang glider dipped past on bright orange wings, spinning, dropping, rising, turning like a human butterfly in the updrafts. They watched until he drifted off and far away before they returned to the table.

Michael already had the lights out that night when he heard a tap at the bedroom door. "Michael, are you still awake?" Nice` asked softly.

He pulled on sweatpants, snapped on the small bedside lamp, and called, "Come in."

"Open the door for me, my hands are full."

When he opened it, she stood there in her pajamas balancing two glasses of milk and a plate of cookies. He stepped back, shaking his head and smiling. She walked over to the rug at the end of the bed and carefully sat down on the floor, using the foot board of the bed as a backrest. He took the plate of cookies, sat them on the rug and joined her on the floor. He suddenly felt 15 again with big sister visiting in the night after he'd done something particularly obnoxious and been sent to bed without his supper. He snagged a cookie quickly before Nice` could start in on them.

They talked for while about this and that before falling silent and simply enjoying each other's company. The room was only slightly lit by the small lamp and long soft shadows lay languidly around the room. The floor at the foot of the bed where they sat was deeply within the shadow of the bed and canopy.

"Pseudo," Nice` started to say, falling back on her nickname for him as her pseudo-brother. She picked up a cookie and began to hand it to him. "Why don't you just quit and come home?" Distracted by the thought, she forgot to give him the cookie and ate it herself.

"I don't think that is still possible."

"Of course it is. I'm here."

"Yes you are. You always have been." He paused. "And you're happy?"

"Yes."

"I think you would find a way to happy anywhere, Pseuda. You are a happy person and happy people go through difficult times but still find a way to enjoy their life," he observed.

"Humpf," she grunted while eating another cookie. She swallowed, "And you would find some way to wallow in existential angst and guilt no matter how well things were going."

He laughed without mirth. "Perhaps so."

"Come home, Michael." She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Think about it," she said and left him alone to think.

Was it possible? The empty plate and glasses still sat on the floor, and he smiled. She had eaten all the cookies herself except for the first one he had grabbed. It was comforting that some things didn't change with time.

He stood and turned out the light, then walked to the open window and looked down to the bay. Like a dark thumbprint it smudged a black mark on the glittering lights of the city. A gentle breeze blew the gauzy white curtains, wrapping them around him like soft arms. When he had been in prison there were days he could only bear it by thinking of Nice`. He had known that she was free and carried within her heart the better part of himself.

Perhaps with her light to guide him through the darkness.

Perhaps........

************

Chapter 4

A quiet and thoughtful Michael had returned to Istanbul, but Nice` had hopes. She knew him well enough to know that this time he was seriously considering giving up his 'business'. Please, she thought, please let it happen. How long could he go on before he got himself killed? Since he refused to give her details, she tried to reassure herself that her overly active imagination probably made his situation out to be more dangerous than it actually was. She was wrong of course.

She pulled on her boots and dropped her pistol into her handbag before leaving for the Celebrity Shoot range. It wasn't her own range, and a little practice would be a good idea. As she reached the car, her cell phone rang. Reaching into her handbag, she grabbed the gun first, put it back, and dug out the cell phone.

"Hello."

"Nice`, Heime here, remember me?"

She wasn't pleased. He was one of the Eurotrash set that Michael had asked her to drop, and she had. "Of course, Heime."

"Where have you been? The old crowd has missed you."

"Busy. Actually I was just leaving the house. I have an appointment," Nice` said.

"Yes you do. With me," came Heime's response.

"Excuse me?"

"Meet me at the Portara in thirty minutes." It was an order, not a request, and Nice` bristled.

"No," she said curtly.

"Oh, you want to see me, Nice`. How is your brother?"

Alarm bells went off in her head and a wave of nausea ripped quickly through her stomach, but her answer sounded calm. "No I don't. He's fine." Her voice was flat.

"He won't stay that way if you don't meet me. Thirty minutes." He disconnected and Nice` was left holding a dead phone.

A pale and shaken Nice` got into her car and drove to meet him. Heime was bad news. With his contacts, the possibility that he knew something damaging to Michael was high. The probability that he would use what he knew to Michael's detriment was higher still.

She pulled up in front of the Portara, got out, and tossed her keys to the valet. The restaurant was in the Kastra with the entire gulf open to view and the White Tower standing sentinel. Her shoulders squared, she stalked into the main room of the Portara and spotted Heime. He sat alone at a table in the middle of the room. Crisp white linen tablecloths covered each table, a single pink rose in a bud vase and a small candle in the center of each. Mozart played softly in the background from the sound system. In one corner sat a grand piano for the live pianist who played during the dinner hour. While it was a little early for lunch, there were enough people at the other tables to testify to the Portara's popularity with the upper crust. She was a frequent customer here herself, and the staff knew her. She sat at Heime's table, her handbag on her lap, her body language making it clear that she didn't plan to stay long.

"Nice`, so good of you to come," he said.

Dispensing with the niceties, she asked, "What do you have to say?"

"Nice`, please," he pretended hurt. "Relax. Have a drink." He motioned to the waiter who went to the bar and ordered Nice`'s usual.

She sighed. "Just get to the bottom line, Heime." The waiter appeared and sat her drink in front of her. Heime waited until he was out of earshot.

"All right." He studied her, then went straight for the jugular. "You will help me get into your social set. You will help me deal drugs."

"No."

"I have contacts who know what Michael does. Remember I saw him at the ski lodge." He pulled a Polaroid out of his breast pocket and tossed it to her. It was a snapshot of she and Michael standing at the edge of a group at the lodge. She hadn't known the picture had been taken, there were a number of flashes going off that night, but she remembered the occasion. It was taken just before Michael had hauled her into the hallway and demanded that she get rid of Heime and his friends.

Heime continued, "I showed this snapshot around. Interesting fellow, your dear brother." His voice became low and venomous. "Professional killer. Professional spook. He even has a number of my friends under his thumb. Now what is a nice girl like you doing with a brother like that?"

"Leave Michael out of this." She started to rise.

"Can't do that," he said. "Look over your left shoulder." She did. One man sat just behind her to the left at a table by himself. As she looked at him, he pulled a wallet out of his breast pocket and briefly flashed a police badge at her. She sat back down.

"Yours?" she asked nodding back at the officer. Nice` was not half as naive as everyone seemed to think. Heime looked a little surprised.

"Yes, mine."

"Hope he costs you a bundle," she said sweetly.

He regained his composure. "You will work for me or I will have my policeman pick him up, and my contacts will be more than happy to testify."

Nice` bowed her head, shielding her eyes from Heime and tried to look desolate. It wasn't a hard job, she was. What to do?

If Heime was right, and he probably was, then he could do Michael a lot of damage. She loved Michael, but wasn't particularly shocked by the activities that Heime described. It was very close to what she had suspected. The photo was nothing, meant nothing, wasn't important. Heime's contacts and a bought policeman were serious trouble. She thought rapidly. If Heime were eliminated, the contacts would be too. A policeman who could be bought once, could be bought twice.

She could agree to Heime's terms and tell Michael. Michael would kill him, and probably the policeman, too. That might get rid of the problem, but she hadn't been the cause for Michael's deeds before, and didn't want to start now. She was the one who had caused the trouble for him. If she hadn't fallen in with Heime and his bunch, Michael wouldn't be in danger from him. Her fault. Her problem. Michael would never go back to prison because of her.

"Make a choice now, Nice`. You're out of time," said Heime coldly.

She dropped her hand to her lap and looked up at him. "All right," she said in a subdued voice. She slipped her hand into her purse.

"That's a good girl," he said, a cold and nasty smile twisting his mouth.

She pulled the pistol out of her bag and pointed it straight at his face and fired one shot. His body flew backwards out the chair, turning it over, and crashing into the next table. Blood and brain tissue sprayed the room. People at the other tables stood suddenly in shock, chairs falling left and right. Heime's policeman leaped to his feet, his mouth hung open in surprise.

Nice` quietly placed the pistol on the edge of the table. Michael will never know why, she resolved. No guilt for him on her behalf. Never. She picked up her drink and took a sip. And waited.

************

Chapter 5

Nice` could make one phone call. She called Michael.

She didn't tell him about Heime's threat. She said only that Heime wanted her to deal drugs. She shot him. End of story. Michael didn't fully buy it, but when he saw the straight set line of Nice`'s mouth he knew she would never say more. It was possible to be more stubborn than Nice`, but difficult.

Michael's contacts succeeded in completely discrediting the police officer's testimony. His printer in Brussels produced some of the finest paperwork he had ever done. The resulting documents he provided for Nice`'s lawyer resulted in the officer being arrested and sent to his own prison before Nice` came to trial. Prison inmates are not kind to former policemen. There was some satisfaction in that.

Heime's contacts did not come forward. With Heime no longer alive to protect them, they wouldn't risk Michael's wrath.

They had no idea that Michael didn't know they had been a threat to him and they went underground and stayed there.

The months between her arrest and conviction were long and agonizing. Michael stood by her. So did Desi and the rest of her friends. It didn't matter.

There were over 50 people in the Portara when she shot Heime. Too many witnesses. It had looked like a case of cold blooded murder to everyone. Perhaps it had been. She would have done the same again. The sentence was life imprisonment without parole.

Michael sat with Marshall in a little family run taverna off the square in the old part of town. Outside on the sidewalk was an ice cream stall for the busy passers by. Through the smoky window they could see the face of the magnificent old church, built in 832 AD, sitting across the square. It was a festal day and the church flew the old Byzantine flag, the double-headed eagle. Michael didn't feel festive.

Spread on the table between them was a layout of the prison which held Nice`. Marshall let out a long sigh, "It would take an army."

"I'll get an army."

Marshall looked at him sadly, "Your lady?"

Michael stared at the diagram and Marshall gave up on him answering. Michael looked up and said, "My sister."

In two words, Michael had told Marshall more about himself than Marshall had ever known. He looked back down at the diagram. The losses were going to be large, the odds bad, but he was Michael's man. Loyalty up, loyalty down. He'd experienced the loyalty down, it was time for loyalty up. "OK."

They laid out a plan to take over the prison. Situated in the heart of a major city with a large police force that also had access to military backup, the prison was not quite impregnable. Just close. It was a lousy plan. There couldn't be any good ones under the circumstances. Evening fell before it was perfected as well as it could be. Nice` would be transferred in two days to a truly impregnable penitentiary, it was now or never. Michael left to visit Nice`.

Nice` sat on the other side of the thick glass wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. She looked smaller than he remembered, more fragile. Michael's memory replayed the orange hang glider they had watched together from her patio as he looked at Nice`. Butterfly in a cage. The prison was cold and very dark. They picked up the communicating hand sets.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Fine." She didn't look it. She looked pale.

"We can file an appeal," he said, to try and keep her spirits up.

"It won't do any good, Michael, and you know it. Give it up."

"No!"

"Michael," she pleaded, "I did it, I'll pay. There's nothing you can do. This has nothing to do with you."

"I will not let you spend your life in prison. Period." His green eyes flashed suddenly like the glint off a set of emeralds. His jaw was set in a hard lock. She looked at him and saw the determination. He'd been here. She knew him. He was about to do something stupid. It was possible to be more stubborn than Michael, but difficult.

"Michael, don't do anything stupid."

"I have a plan," he said by way of response.

She sighed. Knew it, she thought. Walk away, just walk away, please Michael. Prison was already almost more than she could stand with it's lack of privacy, leers, and lack of light. That bothered her the most. No light. Trying to look brave for Michael's sake was wearing her thin. Go, Michael, leave before I cry.

"I have men prepared to break into the prison and get you out," he continued. Even to himself, it sounded improbable.

"No."

"No!?"

"No. What would I do then, Michael? Spend the rest of my life running and hiding. No thank you," she said. Then added, "And maybe blaming myself for something happening to you. Don't put that on me Michael. That is something I couldn't live with."

"I can't leave you here."

"Yes you can. You have to. Life doesn't always work out the way we want it to, Michael." He looked devastated, his eyes filled with pain. "Remember what you said to me?," she asked. "You said I would always find a way to enjoy life. I will. It's just going to be more difficult now. The penitentiary has libraries, film rooms, you'll see." If she couldn't convince him, how was she going to convince herself.

He looked into her eyes. He knew Nice`. She could never hide anything from him. There was more to her crime than she told him. Almost certainly, he thought, he was involved in some way. She would never tell him, he was sure. And prison was already starting to eat away at her. He could read it in her eyes, the slight downward slope of her shoulders. It would destroy her spirit eventually. The bright clean light that was Nice` was beginning to flicker.

"All right," he said. "I won't try to break you out of prison."

"Promise?"

"I promise." They sat looking at each other without speaking. He placed a palm flat against the glass. She raised her hand and placed her palm against his, the glass dividing them, preventing them from touching.

"I love you, Pseuda. Never forget that," he said, his voice husky.

The pet name got to her at last and her eyes misted over. 'I'm scared, Pseudo." He could barely hear her.

"I know."

They sat in silence looking at each other, palms still against the glass. Before he stood and hung up the handset he leaned forward, his face next to the glass and whispered, "Forgive me, Pseuda."

She watched his back as he walked away until he was out of sight.

Michael walked out of the prison and into the night. There was no moon. The prison wall threw a long black shadow along its entire length, swallowing in darkness the block, the street, and Michael.

He would never see Nice` again. The light of her homing beacon was extinguished.

Never keep anything you cannot walk away from he had told himself. He had never imagined that would include Nice`.

The darkness grew darker still and filled Michael's soul.

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they had turned icy cold. He flipped open his cell phone and made a call. When the party answered, he said simply, "This is Michael..........."

************

Chapter 6

Nice` felt cold. There was a pressure behind her eyes, pushing, pushing. She couldn't open them. She tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat were too dry. A plastic cup touched her lips and a little water trickled into her mouth. She pressed her lips together, drew the water into her mouth. The cup returned and this time she could swallow.

She gradually became aware of her body. She was laying on her back. Something held her wrists and ankles. She heard a key turn and then again, again, again. The restraints were removed. Her head was turned to the right.

She opened her eyes and saw a white wall. She moved her eyes downward. A white floor. Upward. A white ceiling. She looked back at the wall. It was curved. Her eyes followed the curve of the round room until they came to rest on a man sitting next to her cot. He had coal black hair and dark eyes. Olive skin. Turkish? Handsome. He spoke.

"Good morning."

She swallowed again and nodded. Her eyes registered that she was coherent and understood him. He continued.

"You're not in prison anymore. The world thinks you are dead. Suicide," he handed her a photograph. "This is your funeral."

She took it with shaking hands. Around a graveside covered in flowers, stood Michael, Desi, and many of her friends.

"We've decided to give you another chance," the man said. "This is where you'll train........"

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