In May of 1972, Samuel P. Rockefeller was watching the Mets lose another ball game when the telephone rang authoritatively. He briefly considered ignoring it, but years of experience as a secret agent compelled him to answer the call, as it could be a national emergency. Sam had recently retired from a national security agency that was so secret it didn���t even have initials. Only the President and the highest echelon of his security advisors knew what the agency���s name was, or that it existed at all.

Sam put down his can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and extracted himself from the La-Z-Boy recliner, which he considered to be the second-best investment he had ever made. His best investment was currently displaying a Pep Boys auto parts store commercial.

Sam Rockefeller had never been particularly gifted at financial transactions, a fact his ex-wife and her lawyer frequently bemoaned. As it happened, they didn���t know the half of it, which suited Sam just fine.

He picked up the receiver. ���Yeah? This is Sam. Make it good, I���m in an important meeting right now.���

A familiar voice on the other end replied, ���Is that right? And would the other participants in this meeting happen to be Dr. Pabst and Professor Lazyboy?���

���You know me far too well, Roger.���

���Yeah, either that or else you failed to find at least one of the spy cameras we placed in your apartment.���

���Another one? Damn it. I knew I should have checked behind the crack in the crown molding.���

���Don���t worry. You can disable it. We have more. Anyway, Rock, I���m calling to inform you about a little job we���d like you to do.���

Sam Rockefeller disliked the nickname ���Rock,��� but he���d given up trying to get people to stop using it decades ago. It was a natural fit, given his muscular build. And in the case of some jerks (like this guy), telling them he disliked it would just encourage them to use it even more. He moved on to his next objection.

���Um, you know I���m retired, right? Can I refer you to the third sentence, first paragraph above?���

���I know, I know, Rock. But guess what? Your retirement doesn���t mean shit to the agency. Check your exit contract. If we have an assignment for you which is, and I quote, ���in the national interest,��� unquote, you���re required to come back and get the job done.���

���Yeah, and what if I say no?���

���Well, as I read this contract, which just happens to be sitting in front of me, paragraph 73 says, ���refusal to serve your country can result in revocation of your government pension and other retirement benefits.��� I���m guessing that would be a bad thing for you. Am I right?���

���Why can���t some younger agent handle this?���

���We need an old hand on this job, Rock. Someone with plenty of experience. You were requested for this job specifically, by the Chief himself. He said this assignment was in the national interest and so you couldn���t refuse.���

���Crap. What���s the job?���

���A simple termination. You���ve done dozens of these, Rock. Execute this assignment with extreme prejudice.���

An assassination, thought Sam. Goddamn it.

���Who���s the target?���

���You���ve obviously been away too long, Rock. Even if I knew who it was, which I don���t, I couldn���t disclose the name over an unsecured phone line. Just check your mailbox as soon as you hang up the phone. You���ll be compensated for your time and expenses at the standard rate, plus a fifty percent bonus payable when the job is completed. Check with Laurie and she���ll make travel arrangements and get you whatever supplies you need. It was great talking with you, Rock. You know where to find me if you need anything.���

���Yeah, Roger, thanks for calling. And now let me tell you just how pleased I am to be serving my country again after all the crap you put me through before I left ������

The phone line went dead.

Roger Roshambo always had been an asshole, Sam thought. He walked to the mailbox. Inside was a plain manila envelope. He ripped it open and removed an 8-by-10 black-and-white photograph with some detailed information on the back. It typically provided the target���s name, aliases, known addresses, places frequently visited, a deadline for completion, and other relevant data. The top of the page was marked, ���Memorize and Destroy.���

Before reading it, Sam turned the page over and looked at the photograph.

���Oh, shit,��� he said.

-���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

Halfway around the world, Yvonne LePapier entered the La Cave bar in the Montparnasse section of Paris and made her way to the back room. Two guards at the door checked her credentials and allowed her to enter. A small, mustached man was sitting at the only table, with an open bottle of wine and two glasses. He nodded as she entered and poured the wine.

���Bonsoir, ma cherie,��� he said.

���Bonsoir, Monsieur,��� she smiled as she took her seat.

���Shall we speak English? I���m making a trip to Orlando with the family next week and I need to practice.���

���Yes, of course. As you wish.���

���Also, I asked for guards who did not know English. They are hard to find. Everyone seems to speak that ugly language nowadays. Not that I think these men would risk their jobs by listening in, mind you.���

���Why all the secrecy tonight, Henri?���

���I have a confidential assignment for you this evening, my dear. A job requiring finesse, discretion, and the use of your special skills.���

An assassination, Yvonne thought. Interesting. She took a sip of the burgundy.

Henri was not in any particular rush, and they worked through the bottle of wine slowly, discussing the current politics within the Service de Documentation Ext��rieure et de Contre-Espionnage, or SDECE, the French equivalent of the U.S.���s CIA. When the bottle was empty, Henri stood and offered his hand.

���It was lovely to see you again, my dear.���

They shook. ���Same here, Henri.���

He reached down and collected a sealed manila folder, which he handed to her. ���Even I do not know the contents of this envelope, my dear. Please open it after I have left the room. I will direct the guards to wait ten minutes so you are not disturbed, then to depart. I hope to see you again soon.���

���Au revoir, Henri. Enjoy your visit to Disney World. I���ve heard it���s fabulous. I have some friends who attended the grand opening last year.���

���I did not say I was going to Disney World.���

���But you are, aren���t you? Young Marie and Phillipe would surely raise havoc if you didn���t.���

���Oui, oui. C���est vrai, bien sur. Bonne nuit, Yvonne. It has been a pleasure.���

After Henri had gone, Yvonne ripped open the envelope and looked at the photo inside.

���Merde,��� she said. She read the information on the back and used the candle on the table to set the document aflame.

-���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

Sergei Nozhnitsy enjoyed his job at the KGB. He particularly liked to see the look on people���s faces when he told them where he worked. Unfortunately, he often had to go undercover and hide this information, posing instead as an accountant or a mineworker or some such menial. Ba, he thought. How can people do such work? Give me a job where I hold people���s lives within my control. Give me employment which causes grown men to grow weak with fear and women to become obedient and submissive. Long live the KGB!

Sergei was nicknamed ���the scissors��� by his co-workers for several reasons, not least of which was his surname ���Nozhnitsy,��� which means ���scissors.��� But he was also highly proficient with sharpened weapons of any kind, from sickles to swords, from rapiers to razors, from daggers to darts, and from scimitars to scissors. Moreover, in his younger days, he was a skilled practitioner of the martial arts. His ���flying scissors��� kick was particularly effective in bringing down an opponent. It was performed by leaping into the air and simultaneously striking the victim in the chest with one of his legs, while the other leg bashes into the back of their knees. Truth be told, now that Sergei was in his mid-50s he hadn���t been practicing his martial arts moves as much as he used to. Still, you wouldn���t want to meet him in a darkened alleyway. Or anywhere, for that matter, if you happened to be his current assignment.

It was a fine clear morning in May, unusually pleasant for Moscow. Sergei walked along Arbat Street, thankful the muddy slush from the last two months had finally melted. There is a special word for it in Russian: slyakot. The gunky mixture is a pedestrian nightmare that reappears on the Moscow streets at the end of each winter. It takes forever to melt; and when it finally does, the dirty water has nowhere to go since most of Moscow���s streets lack sufficient (or any) drainage. Omnipresent potholes can cause a person to find their leg submerged halfway up the tibia without warning.

Although KGB headquarters were located in the Lubyanka Building (also the site of the dreaded Lubyanka Prison), Sergei felt fortunate to have an office in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, a short walk from Arbat Street. Part of his duties involved keeping an eye on the diplomatic corps, particularly those comrades who had travel privileges to western countries. He had foiled several defection attempts and two large smuggling schemes. A certain amount of illegal trade was allowed, of course. It was one of the perks of a diplomatic job. But when the comrade in question became too greedy, the KGB was liable to step in. In practice, there was a certain amount of leeway in determining exactly where the line was drawn. More senior diplomats were allowed more discretion. But the limits also depended upon one���s political standing. A diplomat who fell out of favor with the Kremlin could suddenly find that behavior that was once countenanced was now deemed unacceptable, earning him a one-way ticket to Lubyanka. To the basement, where the prison was. Most of the intelligent comrades avoided going too far afield of the generally accepted standards for appropriate corruption, knowing that doing so could back and bite them later.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was located in one of the ���seven sisters��� buildings. These were seven similar-looking skyscrapers built from 1947 to 1953 and designed in the Stalinist style. They were dotted around the city and were intended to serve as highly visible reminders of the majesty of the U.S.S.R. The Moscow State University building was the tallest, at 240 meters. Two of the sisters were hotels, and the remaining three were used for a combination of residential and office space.

Sergei���s official title was Director of Security and Special Projects, but pretty much everyone at the ministry knew he was KGB. He breezed right past the queue waiting to be frisked, interrogated, frisked again, and hopefully granted permission to enter the building. He gave a curt nod to the soldiers guarding the main doorway who knew him on sight and would not even contemplate questioning him, much less frisking him. He rode the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor, silently hoping that one of the frequent power outages didn���t interrupt his ride.

He unlocked his office door to find a note on the desk which read, ���new assignment.��� Apparently, another KGB operative had been sent here last night. Sergei walked over to the wall safe and dialed the combination to open it. Inside was a sealed manila envelope. There was a small x drawn in one of the corners.

An assassination, Sergei thought. About time.

He ripped it open and stared at the photograph inside.

���Nyet. Nyet. Nyet. Krap.��� Sergei shook his head and spit into the trash receptacle.

-���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

Three days later, Yvonne LePapier received a telegram which read, ���Looking forward to visiting Aunt Marie and Uncle Pierre at their home in Lyon. Has it really been four years since we last met? Dress appropriately and bring no gifts. Rupert.���

(A similar message was received by Sergei Nozhnitsy. It concerned an upcoming visit to Aunt Natasha and Uncle Vanya in Minsk.)

Yvonne took out her cigarette lighter and set fire to the paper, dropping it in the ashtray when the flame approached her fingers. The message was a request for a meeting at a safe house in Dijon, to be held four days from now at the usual hour of 3 am. ���Dress appropriately��� indicated she should be especially careful not to be tailed. ���Bring no gifts��� meant to come unarmed. Fat chance under the circumstances, she thought. Still, it was a point of honor within the spy community that a mutually-designated safe house was a place where all who entered were protected from harm. She had no intention of using her concealed weapon unless someone else made the first move, in which case she hoped she���d be fast enough to avoid a sudden death.

The meeting outside Dijon took place as arranged. Yvonne approached the remote cabin in the woods cautiously. Even though she had been friends with these two men for over 25 years, her recent assignment had thrown their relationship into question and she couldn���t afford to take any chances. If the others had heard any whispers about her assignment, they���d be feeling the same insecurity. Therefore all three of them would have to be extremely careful not to make any sudden movements tonight.

She gave the usual secret knock at the door, and a voice said, ���Enter.���

Rock and Sergei were sitting at opposite ends of the table, with their hands placed flat on the top.

This is bad, Yvonne thought. She made sure her hands were clearly visible as she approached her chair between them. She sat down and put her hands flat on the table.

���Hello Yvonne,��� said Rock, pleasantly.

���Good evening,��� said Sergei, with a slight formal bow.

Yvonne forced a smile which she hoped looked genuine. ���Gentlemen. It���s nice to see you both again.���

���Who are you trying to kid, Yvonne? You could cut the tension in this room with a knife,��� said Sergei.

���Yes,��� said Rock, ���and you know all about knives, Sergei, as we���ve come to respect. Well, I called for this meeting and so I will begin. First, though, can we all agree that no violence will take place tonight, no matter what information is disclosed?���

���Agreed,��� said Sergei.

���Oui, d���accord,��� said Yvonne.

���Me too. Okay, then. I recently received a disturbing assignment, and I���m wondering whether the two of you were charged with a similar task. I am now going to reach for a piece of paper with my left hand, very slowly.���

���Understood,��� said Yvonne.

���Proceed,��� said Sergei.

They both watched him like hawks. Using two fingers, Rock removed a paper from his inside jacket pocket and carefully placed it face down on the table. He turned it over.

It was a photograph of Sergei.

���Shit!��� exclaimed Sergei.

���Ooh, la,��� said Yvonne.

Yvonne watched carefully, but Sergei made no sudden movement. It was almost as if he had expected this.

���Very well,��� said Yvonne. ���I will go next. I have been instructed to terminate you, Rock.���

Rock simply nodded. He and Yvonne looked at Sergei.

���Da. Da,��� Sergei said, leaning back slowly. ���I am ordered to kill you as well, Yvonne. No offense.���

���None taken,��� said Yvonne.

The three spies stared at each other for a few moments.

���I have reason to believe that these simultaneous assignments are not due to coincidence,��� said Rock.

���Oh, you think?��� said Sergei.

���Even if that���s true, what do we do about it?��� asked Yvonne. ���I���ve never refused an assignment, and I���m not sure what would happen if I tried.���

���I have never refused either,��� offered Sergei, ���but unfortunately I do know what would happen.���

���Nor I,��� said Rock, ���although I���m technically retired now.���

Sergei snorted. ���Ha! You haven���t been retired, Rock, but you certainly will be if you decline your assignment. I���m familiar with how your no-name agency operates, and it���s the same as the KGB. We are simply more open about it.���

���Why do you think this is happening, Rock?��� asked Yvonne.

���I suspect that none of these three assignments have official backing from our respective agencies. They were manufactured and slipped to us by someone who wishes us to kill each other until there is only one of us left.���

���Why?��� asked Yvonne. But she already knew the answer.

���Someone found out about the gold, of course,��� said Sergei. ���They don���t wish to fight all of us at once, so they thought they���d have us do the difficult work for them. Two of us will die. Then they���ll approach the last man standing ������

������ or woman ������ added Yvonne.

������ or woman,��� continued Sergei, ���and pressure them to reveal the location of our treasure.���

���This makes sense. But how can we prove it?��� asked Yvonne.

���We can���t,��� admitted Rock. ���No one at our respective agencies would ever confirm an assassination order, even if it is legitimate. Especially if it is legitimate. That���s the beauty of this plan.���

���Da. I agree. There is no way to tell for sure whether these orders are properly sanctioned. So what do we do?���

���Well, as I see it, we have two options,��� said Rock. ���Option one, we carry out the assignments and may the best man or woman win. But not here, and not tonight. We must allow each other the courtesy of getting away from the safe house and planning our respective operations.���

���Yes, agreed,��� said Sergei. Yvonne nodded. ���And option two?���

���We quietly ignore the orders and accelerate our planned retirements, simultaneously trying to figure out who, if anyone, has set us up.���

The three spies looked each other in the eyes without speaking for several minutes, carefully weighing the pros and cons of each option. Then the meeting continued and each of them spoke his or her piece, while the other two tried to determine whether the message they were hearing was a truth, a lie, or (most treacherous of all) a subtle mixture of both.

They had been measuring each other���s words for many years, but that didn���t make it any easier.

-���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

It was June of 1945, and Germany had declared an unconditional surrender the previous month. The war in Asia was ongoing, but it only seemed to be a matter of time before it would be brought to a close as well. In another two months, the atomic bomb would be dropped and the world would enter a new era, not necessarily for the better.

Troops of many nations were camped all over Europe and were slowly beginning to make their way home. While they waited for their return orders, allied soldiers and partisans celebrated.

Three young people in their mid-20s huddled around a table in a French wine bar near a small town called Avallon, about 100 miles southeast of Paris. There were several empty bottles of wine on the table. U.S. Army Lieutenant Sam Rockefeller poured another glass for his newly-made friends from Russia and France. Russia was still an ally at this point, although the strains between Stalin and the West were already apparent. Colonel Sergei Nozhnitsy savored his wine and secretly dreaded the return trip to Russia. He had heard a rumor that Mother Russia had not been treating her triumphant heroes with much warmth upon their homecoming, particularly those who had had direct contact with foreigners. He hoped his march home wouldn���t end in a government-sponsored train ride to Siberia. Across from him was a smiling Yvonne LePapier, who had distinguished herself as a leader of the underground French resistance. Now that the war was over, she was actively on the lookout for Frenchmen who had collaborated with the enemy, all of whom were all scrambling to change their identities and cover up their wartime treachery.

���You know what I���d like to see before I leave this country?��� asked Sergei.

���A woman���s bedroom?��� asked Yvonne.

���Nyet, nyet ��� unless you���re offering, perhaps?���

���Non. Non. Pas moi. But I know some girls ������

���Spasibo, nyet. I���d like to explore some of the caves near here. In Arcy-sur-Cure, I think they call it.���

���Are you sure those are the kind of caves you want, mon cher? They are cold and depressing. Now, these girls I know, on the other hand ������

���I agree with Sergei,��� said Rock, a little shakily after his excessive wine consumption. ���Let���s go to the caves. Can you take us there, Yvonne?���

���Well, I suppose ������

���Good. It���s settled then. Let���s meet here at 9 am tomorrow and head out. I will commandeer a jeep for the trip.��� Rock stood up. A second later, he sat back down again. ���Let���s, um, make that 11 am.���

The next morning the trio set off for the mountains, where they discovered several small caves suitable for exploration. After an exhausting day of spelunking, the sky began to darken and they returned to their jeep. Just as the vehicle was about to reach the main road, Sergei said, ���Rock, pull over. There���s something in the ditch.���

Rock stopped the jeep and they jumped out. Down in the ditch was the wreckage of a German transport truck, lying on its side. The driver was dead. Several bodies of Gestapo policemen were strewn around the area, some in pieces. Flies were everywhere.

���What a mess,��� Rock said. ���They must have driven over a land mine. I���ll need to report this.���

���Let���s look inside the truck,��� said Sergei.

���It could be booby-trapped,��� said Yvonne.

���Not likely, if all of these guards were inside,��� said Rock. ���But it probably won���t be pretty. You should stay back, Yvonne.���

���Are you kidding? Whatever it is, I���m sure I���ve seen worse. Lead on.���

They clambered down and peered inside the truck.

���Holy shit!��� said Rock.

���Mon Dieu!��� exclaimed Yvonne.

���Blin!��� muttered Sergei.

Inside were numerous gold bars, along with the bodies of two Gestapo.

Rock whistled. ���They must have been taking this to a storage site when the truck blew up. The Krauts��� top brass have been hiding cash and artwork all around Europe, hoping they���ll be able to retrieve it later.���

���You still want to report this, comrade?��� asked Sergei.

���You mean report finding an overturned German truck full of bodies and no cargo? Yes. Yes, I do.���

The three allies looked at each other, then looked at the gold, then looked at each other.

���I���ll drive the jeep up closer,��� said Rock.

���Sergei and I will begin unloading,��� said Yvonne.

It took the rest of the night. They transported the bricks to one of the small caves they had found. A few days later, Yvonne found them a more secure storage location and they spent another night transporting the treasure to its semi-permanent home. Several years later, the comrades moved it to an even better spot.

There were one hundred and fifty gold bars in all, each one weighing 400 ounces, or 27 pounds. Each brick was worth about $200,000. The total value in 1945 was around thirty million U.S. dollars.

They were smart about it. They left the gold untouched for a decade, figuring that the French and Americans were still on the lookout for war-time booty. Then they began selling off three or four bars per year. This metal is relatively easy to melt down if you have the right equipment, so they divided each brick into smaller, more manageable pieces and sold it off through black market contacts they had developed. They deposited the cash into numbered Swiss bank accounts and were careful not to visibly overspend their money. Eventually, each of them obtained some false identity documents and used them to purchase a retirement property in a foreign country with no extradition treaty. The spies planned to divide the remaining gold and all disappear simultaneously. After being pushed out of the agency, Sam suggested the time had come. But for one reason or another, the others weren���t ready.

-���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

A week following the Dijon cabin summit, Rock was the first to complete his assignment. On May 28, 1972, Pravda reported that Sergei Nozhnitsy, a decorated Hero of the Soviet Union, was tragically killed in a freak building collapse. Rock passed along the news clipping to Roger Roshambo without comment.

���Rock crushes Scissors,��� Roger quipped. A few days afterward the bonus payment mysteriously appeared in Sam���s Chase Manhattan bank account.

Unfortunately, Samuel P. Rockefeller never got to spend the bonus money. He never even got the chance to argue with his ex-wife���s lawyer about whether he was legally entitled to spend the bonus money.

The following week, Rock was seen entering his apartment at 7:00 pm by two agents who had been tailing him ever since he returned from Europe. The agents had a good view of the only door and windows and were absolutely certain Rock never left the apartment that night.

At 7:15 pm, the agents both dropped their coffees in their laps when Rock���s apartment exploded.

Thankfully, no one was hurt because the adjacent apartments turned out to be empty at the time, and the coffee was not very hot.

Except for Samuel P. Rockefeller, that is. He was quite dead, as was confirmed the next day based upon the dental pattern of his charred remains. Roger Roshambo and the two coffee-stained agents viewed what was left of his body.

���This is LePapier���s work,��� Roger said to his agents. Disgusted, he pulled the white sheet over the corpse���s crispy head. ���Paper covers Rock,��� he said. ���I���m sorry, Sam. I���ll avenge you. Have no doubt of it.���

Roger drove to the office and asked Laurie to book him a flight to Paris, with an open return.

-���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

A team of initial-less agents had been tracking the movements of Yvonne LePapier for several weeks. Per their instructions, they reported the addresses she visited but did not follow her inside. Of particular interest to the agent-in-charge were any self-storage sites or remote locations she visited.

One night in late July, the spies-on-duty followed Yvonne to a storage facility located 30 miles south of Tours. They watched as she unlocked the chains securing one of the units and carried a canvas bag into the room. A few minutes later she exited with the bag, now apparently heavier, relocked the door, and drove off. They reported her movements as usual.

The following night, Roger Roshambo drove to Tours after confirming with his operatives that LePapier was safely tucked in for the night. He arrived at the storage facility and broke open the lock with some heavy-duty bolt cutters. He opened the door and stepped inside, feeling for a light switch on the wall. He found it and flipped it on. Two men in black suits and sunglasses were sitting in the back corners of the room, pointing guns at him.

A female voice behind him said, ���Don���t even think about trying to use the door, Mr. Roshambo. I have no qualms whatsoever about shooting you in the back where you stand. This I will do immediately if you make any sudden movements.���

Roger took a breath to speak but the voice said, ���Don���t talk. Please follow my next instructions to the letter, remembering there are three guns trained on you and we are all excellent shots. First, without turning around, drop the bolt cutters and kick them back toward me. Good. Now, with two fingers, remove your gun and throw it into the middle of the room. Well done. Third, kick off your shoes and kick them toward your gun. Bon. Now, put your hands on the wall. Spread your legs and bend forward. That���s it. Thank you.���

Roger felt a man���s hands frisk him roughly from behind. It was a thorough and professional job.

���Turn around slowly now, Mr. Roshambo.���

Roger did. And found himself face to face with Samuel P. Rockefeller, whose fist immediately connected with his nose and his chin in quick succession. Roger dropped to the floor.

���Stay down,��� Rock barked.

���I thought you were dead. How���?���

���My death was staged. Several years ago, I acquired the apartment below mine under a false name. I cut a trapdoor into my floor. That night, I dropped down and was well away before setting off the blast.���

���Then whose body ���?���

���Does it matter? It was one I had dental records for, which I substituted for my own in the files. He was already dead, by the way, and not by my hand.���

���Ah. And I suppose the Russian���s death was also faked?���

���Of course it was,��� said Sergei from the corner. ���Did you think I���d be foolish enough to let this American amateur kill me?���

���Amateur my ass,��� said Rock. ���If I���d really wanted you dead, I���d ������

���Stop it, boys,��� interrupted Yvonne.

���How did you know it was me?��� asked Roger.

���We didn���t. Not for sure, anyway. But we knew it had to be someone fairly senior in one of our agencies. We decided to let them think their plan had worked, then we waited to see which rat showed up. The smart money was on you, particularly after you made the crack about Rock crushing Scissors. That was a stupid slip. You told me you didn���t know who my target was, remember? But how did you find out about the gold?���

���It was just a fluke. One of my other operatives happened to see you enter a Credit Suisse branch in Zurich a few years back. He mentioned it in passing and it got me thinking. Why would you need to visit Credit Suisse? After some digging and surveillance, I discovered you���d been routinely meeting with these two foreign agents. I eventually pieced the story together. I just never knew where the gold was hidden.���

���And you still don���t. Goodbye, Roger.��� Rock pointed his weapon at Roshambo���s forehead.

���Wait! You can���t kill me! Two agents are watching this location right now.���

���Bullshit. You wouldn���t want to share the gold with anyone, or risk being caught. You���re here alone. And no one will be looking for us. When they finally discover your body, the only prints they���ll find will be yours.��� Roger finally notices their gloves and hairnets.

���Besides, Roger, in case you���ve forgotten, Sergei and I are already dead. And Yvonne will soon join us in the Great Beyond. Or Brazil. I don���t recall which country she chose to retire in. Oh, and before you die I just want you to know that whether or not you turned out to be guilty, I always thought you were a complete flaming asshole.���

Before Roshambo could respond, Rock squeezed the trigger and placed six bullets into his head.

���Waste of good bullets,��� said Sergei.

���Yeah. But I���m rich. Let���s go. Don���t you still have to assassinate someone?���

���Da. I always complete my assignments.��� Sergei smiled at Yvonne. ���You all packed, my printsessa?���

���Ready when you are, comrade. Let���s go give those agents outside my house a fireworks show they won���t forget.���

The three old hands left the building and put a brand new lock on the door.

-���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

Pete Simons