The sun began a slow melt into the hills behind the sea and a grey screen settled over the landscape. Richard sighed again and tilted his empty mug to look inside. What he needed-wanted-was a drink.

A fleeting image of Cora Whycliffe skipped across his mind dragging a scrape of pain with it. So long ago. How many Coras had there been since? He stood and walked slowly from the balcony into the apartment. None that had ended so tragically, he admonished himself.

"Mister Fischer called; he will be here at seven." The deceptively fit minder drawled from his supine position on the lounge in front of the massive television set.

"I can hardly wait." Richard headed for the bar and, under the watchful eye of Murray, poured a generous jolt of vodka into his mug.

"Not too much, Mister Carstairs, you'll be needing all your wits when the others arrive."

"Others?"

Murray returned his attention to the television.

"What others, Murray?"

"You'll see when they get here, sir."

"And when they do, I will have my wits about me . . . nit wits." His tone brimmed with sarcasm and he took a large gulp of his drink.

"It's not my place, sir, but your behavior at the last interview did not endeared you to the mandarins."

"You know what, Murray, I don't give a damn anymore. For the last fifteen years I have been endearing myself to a whole raft of bureaucrats without questioning any of the sad and sorry reasons given. It's used me up; I'm an empty shell. Whatever they think or do about it is beyond me now and I just don't care." He drained the mug and reached for the bottle.

"Let's have a little lie down, sir." Murray took the drink away and led Richard into the bedroom, sitting him on the bed and jerking off his shoes.

"Going to tuck me in, mommy?" Richard scoffed.

"Just have a rest, sir. No need to be confrontational." Murray closed the door as he left the room and Richard fell back, one arm over his face.

He tried closing his eyes but the images from his past kept haunting his mind behind them and he surrendered to a state of depression.

******

"Not the best result, old son, but collateral damage is something all who move in the grey world contend with."

Nathan Fischer had arrived alone and Murray had ushered Richard back into the main room, providing him with a black coffee and a firm clap on the back.

"How generous of you to dismiss life as simple collateral damage." Richard said scathingly. The reported image of Cora Whycliffe lying silently in a bath of scarlet red water, her blood, releasing from her slashed wrists in an act of absolute despair, filled his head.

"I didn't mean to diminish her, my son, but it's the big picture we must keep in focus." Nathan slumped in a chair by the window, smoking one of his foul cigarettes while testing the tone of his placating phrases. "Peter Killdrew was satisfactorily compromised but our money is still unaccounted for and the approved destination remains understandably upset."

"And by, approved destination, you mean your band of killers and mercenaries conscripted to do your dirty work wherever your sticky fingers want to pry." Richard grabbed a bottle from the side table and poured a stiff drink into his coffee mug.

"One man's mercenary another's revolutionary hero, my boy. Speaking of which, we are interested in knowing the full saga of your relationship with Peter Killdrew when you are ready to share that with us."

"So bloody smug." Richard scoffed. "You already debriefed me ages ago, why now again so long after the fact?"

"Some puzzling anomalies have popped up since you vetted your first recruit . . . Madame St. Croix."

"What anomalies?"

"Just a few facts that need corroboration. We have to paint right to the corners of the picture before considering success, my boy."

"A young woman took her life because you ruined her father. Is that what the Agency calls success of the big picture?"

"Dalton Whycliffe is far from ruined and in situations like this, Richard, time has no currency. As for that big picture, I'm afraid we haven't seen it all yet."

"You have as far as I'm concerned."

He made a troubled pout. "You need a couple of days to reflect, Richard. I've made arrangements for a short holiday in Italy. Murray has some business to see to so you can go and suck up some sun, wine, and the local lovelies. Purge your system of its moral toxins."

Nathan rose, took a final drag on his cigarette, stubbing it out and grinding it to mush before dusting his fingers out the window.

"When you have thought this through carefully we will meet again . . . for a more detailed interview.

Murray will make all the travel arrangements. You can leave in the morning." He went to the door and paused, waiting for a final shot. When it didn't come, he nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Where were these others you threatened me with - the nit wits?"

Murray rose from the chesterfield and crossed the room, removing the bottle and the mug from Richard's hands.

"Circumstances changed. I think we can call that enough, sir."

"If I didn't know you could kill me with one blow, I'd punch your bloody face, Murray."

"Knowledge can be a beneficial thing, sir." He smiled and put the bottle away behind the bar. "Perhaps a good hot shower will put your mind back in the correct perspective. Why don't I run the water."

Richard knew full well it wasn't a suggestion and he dutifully followed, stripping off his shirt as he did. The cold water stung his skin and he closed his eyes, feeling every pore slamming shut under the harsh spray. The twinge down his back resulted from wondering just how much Nathan knew.