Sonia Verbrugge did not know that this would be her last day on earth.She was trudging along the crowded sidewalks of Ent de Linden, almost overwhelmed by the tide of summer tourists.Don't panic, she told herself.You must be calm. The instant message from Franz on her computer was appalling.Run away, Sonia!Go to the Artemis Hotel.You will be in no danger there.Waiting to come from-- Communication was suddenly cut off.Why didn't Franz finish it?What could have happened?The night before, she had heard her husband tell someone on the phone that Prima must be stopped anyway.Who is Prima?

Madame Verbrugge was approaching the Rue Brandenburgiske, the street where Artemis was, and the hotel was only for women.I'll wait for Franz there, and he'll explain it all to me. When Sonia Verbrugge reached the next intersection, the traffic light turned red, and as she was waiting on the sidewalk, someone in the crowd bumped into her, and she staggered onto the road.Damn tourists!A limousine that was parked side by side with other cars suddenly drove towards her, and when it passed by her side, it just knocked her to the ground.The crowd immediately surrounded her. "What's up with her?"

"Ist ihr etwas passiert?" (German: "Is something wrong with her?") "Peut elle marcher?" (French: "Can she move?") At this moment a passing ambulance stopped.The two nurses in the car hurried over to control the situation. "We'll take care of her." Sonia Verbrugge found herself being carried into an ambulance.The doors closed, and a moment later, the ambulance sped away. She was strapped to a pull-out bed and struggled to sit up. "I'm fine," she protested. "It's not a big injury. I—" An orderly bent over her: "It's all right, Madame Verbruger. Just relax."

She looked up at him, suddenly panicked: "How do you know that I—?" She felt a sharp needle stab into her arm, and for a moment she fell helplessly into the darkness that waited beside her. Mark Harris was alone on the viewing platform of the Eiffel Tower, ignoring the pouring rain around him.Lightning flashed across the sky from time to time, and raindrops fell like crystal waterfalls of diamonds. On the other side of the Seine stood the famous Chaillot and Trocadero, but he was unaware of it.His thoughts were on Prima, and the amazing news about to be revealed to the world. The wind began to whip the rain into crazy eddies.Mark Harris covered his wrist with his sleeve and looked at his watch.They are late.Why do they insist on meeting here, and at midnight?He was wondering, when he heard the elevator doors of the Eiffel Tower open.The two walked towards him, against the damp wind.

Mark Harris recognized them, and his hanging heart was relieved: "You are late." "Too bad weather, Mark. I'm sorry." "Well, it's good to be here. The meeting in Washington is all set, isn't it?" "We're going to talk to you about it. In fact, we spent a lot of time this morning discussing the best way to deal with it, and we decided—" They were talking, and the second person had moved behind Mark Harris, and the two things happened almost simultaneously.A heavy blunt object hit him on the head, and after a moment he felt himself being lifted up and thrown into the icy cold rain outside the parapet wall, his body plummeted toward the sidewalk below the 38th floor beyond redemption.

Gary Reynolds grew up in hilly Kelowna, Canada, near Vancouver, where he trained to fly, so he's used to flying over treacherous mountains.He was driving a Cessna Citation II, looking around the surrounding snow-capped peaks warily. There were supposed to be two pilots in the cockpit during the mission, but there was no co-pilot today.Not this flight, Reynolds thought grimly. He declared a false flight to JFK.No one would think of going to Denver to find him.He will spend the night at his sister's house and fly east in the morning to meet the others.Arrangements are in place for the elimination of Prima, and—

A voice on the radio interrupted his thoughts. "Certificate - One Lima Foxtrot, this is the Denver International Airport approach control tower. Please enter." Gary Reynolds hits the radio button. "I'm Citation - One Lima Foxtrot. I'm asking permission to land." "One Lima Foxtrot, give your bearings." "One Lima Foxtrot. I'm fifteen miles northeast of the Denver airport. Altitude fifteen thousand feet." He saw Pikes Peak looming to his right.The sky was blue and the weather was fine.good sign. A moment of silence.Another order came from the control tower. "One Lima Foxtrot, you are cleared to land on runway 2-6. Repeat, runway 2-6."

"One Lima Foxtrot, understand." Without any warning, Gary Reynolds suddenly felt the plane bounce upwards.He looked out the cockpit window in surprise.There was a strong wind, and within a few seconds, the Cessna was sucked into a violent turbulent air mass and began to toss unceasingly.He pulled up on the joystick, trying to climb higher.Useless.He was locked in a vortex of madness.The plane was completely out of control.He snapped the radio button. "I am Lima Foxtrot. I have an emergency." "What kind of emergency, Lima Foxtrot?" Gary Reynolds yelling into the microphone. "I'm experiencing wind shear! Extreme turbulence! I'm in the center of a true hurricane!"

"One Lima Foxtrot, you're just four and a half minutes from the Denver airport, and there's no sign of air turbulence on our screens." "I don't care what's on your screens! Tell you—" His voice rose suddenly. "Help! Help—" In the control tower, they watched in amazement as the signal faded from the radar screen. At dawn, not far from Pier 17 on the East River, in a spot under the Manhattan Bridge, six uniformed police officers and plainclothes detectives were massing around a fully clothed body lying on the river's edge.The bodies had been thrown here at will, so that the heads bobbed eerily with the ebb and flow of the tide.

The person in charge, Detective Earl Greenberg of the Southern District of Manhattan, has completed a formal descriptive process.No one was allowed to approach the body until the photo was taken, and he was taking notes on the scene while the detectives looked for evidence that might be scattered around.The hands of the deceased were bound with clean plastic bags. Medical examiner Carl Ward finished his examination, stood up, and dusted his trousers.He looked at the two detectives in charge of the case.Earl Greenberg was a professional, shrewd and capable, and his performance was truly remarkable.Detective Inspector Robert Priggiser had gray hair and a battle-tested reserved demeanor.

Ward turned to Greenberg. "It's up to you now, Earl." "What do we know?" "The apparent cause of death was the larynx slit, the entire carotid artery. Both legs had shattered knee caps, and it felt like a couple of ribs were broken. Someone treated him fairly roughly." "What about the time of death?" Ward looked down at the tide lapping at the dead man's head. "Hard to say. I'm guessing they dumped him here after midnight. I'll give you a full report when the body arrives at the morgue." Greenberg turned his attention to the corpse.Gray jacket, dark blue trousers, light blue tie, and an expensive watch on his left wrist.Greenberg knelt down and began searching the deceased's jacket pockets.In one pocket his fingers found a small note.He opened it and pinched the edge of the note.It read: "Washington. Monday, ten o'clock in the morning. Prima." He stared at it for a moment, puzzled. Greenberg reached into the other pocket and found another note. "Italian." He looked around. "Gianelli!" A plainclothes policeman rushed over: "Yes, sir?" Greenberg handed him the note: "Do you understand?" Giannelli read it aloud, word for word: "Last chance. Meet me at Pier 17 with the rest of the drug, or die." He handed the note back. Robert Pregidzer looked surprised. "Mafia fight? Why did they leave him here like this, in broad daylight?" "Good question." Greenberg was searching the rest of the dead man's pockets.He took out a wallet and opened it.It was heavy with cash. "They're definitely not after his money." He pulled a business card from his wallet. "The name of the deceased was Richard Stevens." Pregidzer frowned. "Richard Stevens... haven't we read about him in the papers lately?" "His wife. Diana Stevens. In court, at the trial for Tony Altieri's murder," Greenberg said. "That's right. She's giving evidence against the number one mafia leader," Prigidzer said. They both looked back at the body of Richard Stevens at the same time.