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  6AM.

  Despite the fact that he'd been up late, Stahl never deviated from his personal daily routine. He'd been that way since the early 1980s.

  He slid out of bed and dropped to the floor. He locked his arms, positioned himself and then launched into the push-ups.

  When he reached two hundred, he stopped.

  On to his back. Stahl began a series of crunch exercises starting with his upper abdominals and descending from there. He extended his legs, locked them out suspended six inches off the floor. He did scissors kicks slow to a count of four, the way they did in special operations units around the world.

  He stood and took a series of deep breaths that flooded his system with oxygen. He shifted into a strenuous martial arts routine consisting of leg exercises, first to limber and then to strengthen. He kicked and punched in the same four feet of space for fifteen minutes.

  Sweat poured off his naked body, funneled through the sharp crevices between his muscle bellies. At forty-two, Stahl was in better shape than men half his age.

  He smiled.

  Half a lifetime ago, he'd been disillusioned. Disaffected. And cast out of his aristocratic house because he'd embraced the teachings of Marx and Lenin. His father unable to cope with the pro-Communist leanings of his son, cut him off from an annual allowance of five million US dollars.

  Stahl left one Wednesday afternoon in March when the rains still fell cold and harsh against his skin. He'd walked out of their ancestral family home in Northern Germany and never once looked back.

  He'd found a home in the underground. The splinter groups that once made up the radical terrorist groups like Baader-Meinhof and Red Army welcomed him with open arms.

  And Stahl found a new family.

  A better family, he'd thought back then.

  Now he knew better.

  Stahl knew what real family was. Even if it that meant only him and his son.

  He sighed, padded to the shower and turned the faucet to scalding hot. He rinsed the accumulated sweat off his body and lathered his face for a shave. Shaving blind was a trait he'd acquired during his training in the Libyan desert. Mirrors weren't allowed.

  Stahl switched the water to ice cold to snap his pores shut and stepped out into the steam. He toweled quickly, dressed and eased out of his apartment by seven-fifteen.

  Downstairs in the garage, he pulled the green tarp off his Saab Turbo. The car was fast enough without being too showy. And on the Autobahn, it was one of a thousand such vehicles.

  Anonymous.

  Undetectable.

  He drove fast, concerned only with bad drivers. But on the Autobahn, bad drivers stuck to the far right lane with the other autophobes.

  Stahl zoomed past them. He switched the radio to a classical music station and found some Wagner. He whistled along.

  He pulled off twenty minutes later. At the nameless town, he cruised into the square, past a statue of a once-famous statesman. Someone Stahl knew nothing about.

  He found the address quickly enough and parked five streets over. Meandering down the cobblestoned streets, Stahl triple-backed on himself to make sure he didn't have any surveillance. At exactly eight o'clock, he entered the doorway of the dark gray brick building. A single buzzer with no nameplate hung next to the doorjamb. Stahl pressed it once.

  The door clicked open.

  He hoped they had video cameras hidden somewhere. Simply buzzing him through struck him as incredibly stupid. That was the second instance of stupidity. The first had been them contacting him in the first place.

  He climbed to the third floor on carpeted steps. Down the hall with old peeling yellow wallpaper. The door at the end opened.

  A man stood in the doorway, blocking out the light behind him. Hired muscle.

  Stahl sighed.

  He stopped six feet from the door. The man glared at him.

  Stahl looked right through him.

  From inside the room, he heard the voice of an old man call out to the muscle. "I wouldn't hassle our friend, Hans. He'll kill you without so much as a an ounce of effort."

  The big man moved obediently out of the way. Smart lad, thought Stahl as he entered the room.

  The old man stood by the window. He aged even more since Stahl had seen him last. A few stray hairs still poked out of his skull, long white and springy. His eyes had sunk even further into their sockets. Another chin had added itself to the jowls hanging like heavy drapes.

  The old man smiled. "You're right on time."

  "I'm always on time," said Stahl. He sat in the chair with its back to the wall and kept his hands folded in his lap.

  The old man pointed at a newspaper on the nearby coffee table. The front page carried an account of the previous night's shooting. "Did you see that?"

  Stahl looked. "What about it?"

  "It was you, wasn't it?"

  "What if it was?"

  The old man sighed. "It is important, I think, that you confine your activities given the nature of what I will propose shortly."

  "I didn't say I had anything to do with that murder."

  "I know yourÉproclivity toward vigilante justice," said the old man. "It carries all the hallmarks of your particular skill set. The .22 caliber bullets, the isolated location, time of night."

  "A lot of people have .22 caliber pistols."

  The old man shrugged. "Even if you don't confirm it, I'll simply assume it was you."

  "One more shooting to my credit doesn't stroke my ego."

  "Whatever the case, we need to talk." He glanced at the bodyguard. "Go fetch us some coffee."

  The muscle frowned. The old man sighed. "Go already. Stahl won't let anything happen to me, at least not while I have the lure of money over him." He waited until the bodyguard had backed out of the room and then sat across from Stahl on a simple couch.

  "I have a problem."

  "Most of the world does, too."

  "Indeed. This problem, however, can be rectified. Solved. But only by a man with your particular talents."

  Stahl shrugged. "I'm out of that game now. You know that."

  "You were a part of it for too long to simply walk away."

  Stahl leaned forward. "I walk away from anything. Anytime I damn well please. I paid my dues. And I've certainly demonstrated my preferences for being left alone."

  The old man snorted. "Killing Rudolph was hardly necessary. I only sent him to deliver a message."

  "And I had him deliver a message of my own," said Stahl. "It is only out of courtesy I am even here this morning. Say what you need to say and then let me be on my way."

  "I'm offering you a job," said the old man.

  "I don't want one."

  "You make this difficult."

  "Not at all. It's very simple. I don't want to be bothered. I don't want a job. I don't-"

  "Your son is dying, Ernst."

  Stahl kept his breathing in check. He'd found out. Somehow he'd found out. He always did.

  The old man continued. "I believe a transplant is the only thing that will guarantee the young lad lives beyond the next few weeks. Isn't that right?"

  "Yes. Although that's none of your concern."

  "I'm not implying a threat, if that's what you're thinking."

  Stahl said nothing.

  "Merely," continued the old man, "that I am aware of the decidedly formidable financial aspects of such a procedure."

  "There's insurance for such things."

  "And you have none," said the old man. "After all, Ôretired assassin' isn't exactly the sort of thing you can use to get a normal job nowadays, is it?"

  "Make your point."

  "I made it already," said the old man. "I want to hire you."

  Muscle returned with three coffees and handed them out. Stahl sipped his slowly. He detested the taste but he'd never let on to that fact. "I'm still here," he said.

  The old man directed Stahl's attention to the television set in the corner of the room. The screen came alive with images.
The old man pointed. "The gentleman in the white lab coatÉcan you kill him?"

  Stahl watched the screen memorizing the details of the man's face and then looked at the old man. "I wouldn't be here if you had any doubts."

  "Indeed."

  "So then," continued Stahl, "the question is not if I Ôcan,' but rather if I will."

  "I think your son's health may well be reason enough. Don't you?"

  Stahl studied the screen. "Who is he?"

  "A former employee."

  "That's not a lot of information."

  The old man shrugged. "He worked for us. HeÉdid things. Then he had a conscience shift. He got morals. He found his work unacceptable and went over to the intelligence services."

  "And he's got some dirty little secrets, has he?"

  "Several, in fact. One the world is already familiar with. And one that I want kept a secret until the time of my choosing."

  "You're being deliberately obtuse."

  "You don't need to know that much."

  "I need to know more than you're sharing right now."

  The old man coughed. "Are you certain you wish to know?"

  Stahl frowned. "Games don't amuse me. Tell me what I need to know about this target."

  "Very well." The old man leaned forward and spoke quietly for a few seconds. Then he leaned back and waited.

  Stahl pondered the information. "It's a big job."

  "Not big in terms of size, but it is extremely important."

  "Messy."

  The old man nodded. "Use explosives. I don't want you simply shooting this man. It has to be done with a bomb."

  "What's the timeframe?"

  "As soon as possible," said the old man. "I'd like the target eliminated within a week."

  "That's not a lot of time."

  "Risky. Isn't it?"

  "He'll have security with him if he's gone over. Yes, it's risky. It might even be suicidal."

  "I feel certain you are up to the challenge."

  Stahl sipped his coffee. "I haven't heard anything yet to make me accept the mission."

  "The sooner you acquire the necessary money for the transplant, the sooner your boy gets better. Isn't that so?"

  "Yes."

  "Take the job," said the old man. "Take the job and your son gets his transplant and the best medical care German hospitals can provide. He will be alive and well."

  "Twenty million dollars," said Stahl. "US currency."

  The old man laughed. "Ridiculous. Even for you. Even for your abilities, such a price is completely outrageous."

  "You came to me, remember?" Stahl shrugged. "I know what you like to dabble in. I have a fairly decent idea of what he made for you. And I know that you'll sell what he made for top dollar. If I take the assignment, I get top dollar as well."

  Silence hung in the room. Stahl watched the television screen, focusing on the face.

  The old man cleared his throat. "Very well."

  "US," said Stahl. "I don't want any of those silly Euros. And I'll need ten million up front."

  The old man shook his head. "You'll get the entire amount upon completion of the job."

  "Out of the question."

  "I'd have no assurances you'd do the job. You could walk out of here and be ten million dollars richer without ever starting the mission."

  "You'd have my word," said Stahl. "That used to mean something."

  "Times change," said the old man. "You've got seventy thousand dollars still in your checking account," he smiled, "I did some checking. That's more than enough to finance your mission. Once you complete the assignment, I'll release the money."

  "My son doesn't have that much time," said Stahl.

  "I'm told that he has at least one month before his condition deteriorates to the point where even a transplant won't help him. Take a week and complete your mission. Then you get to come home, see your son get his life back, and the two of you can go on with your lives, albeit much richer."

  Stahl looked at the bodyguard and then the old man. "If I do this job and you don't pay me, I will make it my life's mission to hunt you down. I will introduce you to a world of agony unlike anything you've ever known."

  The old man waved his hand. "Yes, I'm sure of that, Herr Stahl. Now, is there anything else?"

  "I'll need a contact. Someone sterile."

  "I have someone in mind. Call me when you reach your destination. One of my helpers will give you the necessary information."

  "Where am I going?"

  "To the States. Boston, Massachusetts. Your target is scheduled to address a conference there in seven days. Make sure he never utters word."

  "You've got excellent information."

  "Money buys everything."

  Stahl ignored him. "One more thing: after today, I don't exist anymore. No more jobs, no more phone calls, no more dead drops. This is the end of our relationship."

  The old man held his gaze and then nodded.

  Stahl stood. "Don't double-cross me."

  "I won't."

  Stahl stared at him a second longer. Then he turned and walked out.

  Chapter Four

  Frank hated mornings.

  Years ago he'd enjoyed sleeping late. Preferably until noon. His mother didn't care. How could she? Doped up on heroin, she spent most of her days locked in her bedroom. Frank would wake, eat, and then get out of the tiny apartment. He found solace on the streets. Right up until his mother's overdose and subsequent death.

  He was eighteen then and old enough to care for himself. Pretty much what he'd been doing all along anyway.

  Then he met Moe.

  Already sixty years old, Moe was back in town on a job and had stopped by the Giani bar for a drink. Don Giani introduced Frank.

  Moe's cold gray eyes looked him up and down. "You out of school?"

  Frank nodded.

  "Going to college?"

  He'd almost laughed. Getting out of high school had been tough enough. The last thing Frank wanted to see was another textbook. He said as much.

  "You need a job," said Moe. "You can't just loaf around all day."

  Frank felt his anger rise. "Well, what do you do?"

  Moe took a sip of brandy, savoring the way the liquor rolled over his taste buds, as if he had all the time in the world. "I kill people."

  The way he looked when he said the three words set Frank's blood cold. He attached nothing to words. No pride. No ego. NoÉnothing. And it was that lack of anything that made Frank a believer.

  Moe offered a hand to Frank. Frank shook it, but Moe held on, adding pressure to the grip, slowly squeezing the bones in Frank's hand together. Frank stared at him while he did so, determined not to show any pain.

  Thirty seconds passed like a century and then Moe let his hand go. A small smile peeked out on his face. "You've got guts, kid."

  Frank said nothing. Somewhere deep down inside he had a sense of what was coming next. "How about you and me have ourselves a talk? If it goes well, I might just have a way for you to earn a living." He smirked. "But it ain't gonna be easy."

  They'd talked. And soon enough Frank had packed up his belongings and moved into a giant warehouse down on the waterfront. There, among a million other things, the aging assassin rooted out Frank's affection for sleeping late.

  Everyday for six months, Moe woke Frank at 5:00AM with a variety of noise. Some days he'd use a loudspeaker that played the 1812 Overture. Other days Moe would rig improvised training explosives that boomed off the soundproofed walls. Still other days belonged to the sound of fully automatic machine gun fire.

  Twenty-four weeks after it started, Frank knew he'd never be able to sleep past sunrise ever again.

  Not that he ever grew to enjoy it. But then again, Moe had told him he didn't have to ever like it. He just had to do it.

  It came down to Moe's favorite subject: discipline. Moe would always chomp his cigar and grunt, "without discipline, you ain't got shit." Frank had noticed early on that Moe's casual method o
f speech betrayed the man's youth in Brooklyn. But Moe could sound as polished as a diamond if he wanted. He taught Frank how to do that also.

  And Frank got up early.

  He rolled out of bed and did a series of breathing exercises designed to pump his blood full of oxygen. Next he stretched for about five minutes. Then he stepped into sweat pants, a hooded sweatshirt, and sneakers. He strapped on a small caliber Walther .380 just behind his right hip, locked the door behind him and descended the stairs. As he walked, the thick aged carpeting absorbed his footfalls.

  Outside, the January air greeted him like a slap to the face. Cold and wet, it stung his skin. Frank flapped his arms once more and then began a slow trot down Commercial Street toward the waterfront.

  Office workers, neighborhood folks, and assorted merchants already crowded the streets. Frank slid through them all, a fin through the swells of people.

  He banked left at the Big Dig construction project and threaded his way past the Aquarium. Finally he reached the park by the harbor and increased his speed. Few people barred his way now.

  As he ran, he felt his heartbeat even out. His lungs relaxed as he found his stride. He felt a line of perspiration begin at the back of his neck and work its way down his back.

  Why Gia?

  The question had plagued him all night long. Even Moe's sure-fire sleeping techniques had failed to send Frank off to Sleepyville. Frank had wrestled with the possibilities and failed to find one that made sense.

  Don Patrisi didn't have to tell Frank why he wanted Gia plugged. Especially since the Don knew that Frank and Gia had a past. But Frank wanted to know.

  He needed to know.

  Was it a test? Was the Don testing him, trying to see if he was truly loyal to the Family? Frank frowned. He'd proven himself so many times in the past, such tests were unnecessary.

  And almost insulting.

  He dodged a gaggle of lawyers on their way to legal maneuverings and ducked under the archway of the Boston Harbor Hotel. He crossed onto Northern Avenue and ran towards Black Falcon Terminal.

  Frank increased his speed.

  As his sneakers grabbed pavement, he knew what he'd have to do.

  If Don Patrisi wouldn't tell him why Gia needed to be killed, Frank would have to find out for himself.

  That meant a visit to Gia.