“Stop!”

It was Ian Jorgenson. His small boat pulled up beside theirs.

“Here. This is fine. Give me the gun, Nikki, I want to put a bullet through this bastard. Then you can put him in that bag and sink him to the bottom.”

Simon could feel Nikki leaning toward Ian to give him the gun. It was his last chance. Simon jumped up, slammed against Alpo, and dove at the small man in the other boat. Both boats careened wildly, the men shouting and cursing. As Simon hit the water, he heard a splash behind him, then another.

God, there was nothing colder on earth than this damned water. What did he expect? He was in Sweden in November, for God’s sake. He wondered how long he had before hypothermia set in and he died. He didn’t fight it, just let himself sink, quickly, quietly, trying not to think of how cold he was, how numb his legs felt. He had to get free or he would die, from the frigid water or from a bullet, it didn’t matter. He worked his hands until he hit the bottom of the canal, twisted away from where he thought the other men were. He swam as best he could with only his feet in the opposite direction, back down the canal, veering toward the side, back to where there was more shelter and a way to climb out of the water.

He was running out of breath and he was freezing. There wasn’t much more time. There was no hope for it. He kicked upward until his head broke the surface. He saw Nikki and Ian both in the water, speaking, but softly, listening for him. Damn, his hands weren’t free yet.

He heard a shout. They’d spotted him. He saw Alpo rowing frantically toward him. He didn’t stop to get Ian or Nikki out of the water, just came straight toward Simon.

At last his hands slipped free from the frayed hemp. He felt his blood slimy on his wrists, mixing with the water. It should have stung like a bitch, but he didn’t feel much of anything. His hands were numb.

He dove just as he saw Alpo raise a gun and fire. The frigid water splashed up in Simon’s face, close. Too close. He dove at least ten feet down and swam with all his strength toward the side of the canal.

When he came up, his lungs on fire, the boat was nearly on him. The second boat was behind him and now all the men were in it, searching the black water for a sign of him.

Ian shouted, “There he is! Get him!”

Gunshots split the water around him.

Then he heard the sirens, at least three of them.

He went under again, deeper this time, and changed direction to swim toward the sound of those sirens. It was so cold his teeth hurt.

When he couldn’t hold his breath for another second, simply couldn’t bear the water any longer, he came up as slowly as he could, his head quietly breaking the surface.

He just couldn’t believe what he was seeing. A half dozen police cars screeched to a stop on the edge of the canal, not ten feet from him. Guns were drawn, men were shouting in Swedish, flashing lights on Ian and his crew.

A man reached out his hand and pulled Simon out of the canal. “Mr. Russo, I believe?”

27

Lily walked beside Olaf’s wheelchair back to the main entrance hall with its huge black-and-white marble chessboard, its three-foot-tall pieces lining opposite sides of the board, in correct position, ready to be moved.

He motioned for a manservant to leave his chair right in the middle of the chessboard, squarely on the white king five square. He looked at Lily, who stood beside the white king, then glanced down at the watch on his veined wrist and said, “You didn’t eat much dinner, Lily.”

“No,” she said.

“He’s dead by now. Accept it.”

Lily looked down at the white queen. She wondered how heavy the chess piece was. Could she heft it up and hurl it at that evil old man? She looked toward the silent manservant, dressed all in white like a hospital orderly, and said, “Why don’t you get an electric wheelchair? It’s ridiculous for him to push you everywhere.”

Olaf said again, his voice sharper now, not quite so gentle, “He’s dead, Lily.”

She looked at him now and said, “No, I don’t believe he is, but you soon will be, won’t you?”

“When you speak like that, I know you aren’t at all like your grandmother, despite your look of her. Don’t be disrespectful and mean-spirited, Lily. I don’t like it. I’m quite willing to present you the Frasiers’ heads on platters. What more can I offer you?”

“You can let Simon and me leave with my grandmother’s paintings.”

“Don’t be a child. Listen to me, for this is important. In a wife I require obedience. Ian, I’m sure, will help me teach you manners, teach you to curb your tongue.”