Downtime or not, Jack's mind dwelled on his quarry. He didn't need the CO's report to know the relevant events.

The uranium courier's trail had disappeared after Venice, but his kinship with Vadim was no coincidence. When De Carlo had interviewed Vadim, he'd denied any contact with his cousin and invited the officers to search the villa. They'd found nothing suspicious.

Other than Vadim and his bodyguards, a young American woman resided there. An overly courteous Vadim had introduced her as his houseguest.

Jack emitted a cynical snort. Guest was a euphemism. De Carlo's report stated that her bedroom--beside Vadim's--had been awash in Italian designer boutique clothes and silk lingerie with the price tags still attached. A check of Vadim's credit card history showed he'd purchased them all. A man didn't buy expensive clothing for a mere guest.

He raised the binoculars and used the rest of the time to study the villa. The house, part of it dating to the 1600s, was a sprawl of soft-red brick, native stone chimneys and flagstone terraces. It stood at the end of a long avenue lined with ancient lime trees. On one side was the vineyard, tended by the adjacent farmer cooperating with the task force. On the other side, opposite the watchers, Jack saw gardens, a swimming pool and guesthouses.

"They come," one of the Italians said. "De Carlo says five minutes E.T.A."

Jack's adrenaline surged and his temples throbbed. Deep breaths calmed him. Photographs had put a face to Vadim, but now he was finally going to see his enemy in the flesh.

When Jack heard tires crunch on the gravel driveway and the purr of a powerful engine, he raised the binoculars.

A silver-gray S-Class Mercedes sedan rolled up to the portico, and the driver climbed out, a swarthy man in a lumpy sport coat. The Italian bodyguard, Jack recalled, one Guido Mazza. He made a small bow as he opened the rear door.

The diamond dealer eased smoothly from the backseat. He gleamed like his wares in a tailored suit the same silver-gray as his luxury automobile. At a distance he looked fit, trim and much younger than the fifty Jack knew him to be.

Fifty is all you'll have. Jack's eyes narrowed as he memorized the man's features.

Even teeth showing in a crocodile smile, bright and bogus, Vadim extended a hand for the woman.

Jack had seen photographs of her, too, snapshots taken with telephoto lenses. Hot as the Italian sun but with a freshness that surprised him. Sophie Rinaldi, aged twenty-seven, from Pelham, New York. An American tourist who after two weeks of touring Italy moved in with Vadim. She--

What he saw next short-circuited his thought processes. A slim foot in a red sandal extending from the Mercedes. Then a long, shapely, tanned leg. And the other.

"The guy is pond scum, but mamma Mia, he sure can pick 'em."  Beside Jack, Leoni had awakened.

The Rinaldi woman accepted Vadim's proffered hand as she slid from the leather interior. After smoothing her skirt--a gauzy red thing that floated to her knees--she tossed back her hair and smiled.

 That soft curve of lips sent a shock wave of heat into Jack's veins. Need slammed into his groin. Never had the mere sight of a woman affected him with such power.

Why now? Why her?

Classic oval face, full lips, a mass of softly curling dark hair, toned feminine curves--the sensual Italian look. Hot but nothing special.

Except she wasn't what he'd expected, even from the telephoto shots. Softer, like her name, Sophie. With a breathless, otherworldly quality that kept his gaze riveted to her instead of to his target.

A fluke, effects of the sun and anticipation. He exhaled slowly, then again until the sensual vise began to loosen. He dragged his gaze from the woman to Vadim.

As the driver pulled the car around to the garage, Vadim and Sophie strolled toward the house. The diamond dealer leaned back his head and laughed at something she said. He brought her delicate hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.

The older man didn't have his hands all over her, but why would he when she was in his bed every night? An assumption on ATSA's part, but a logical one.

"Lucky bastard," Leoni muttered. "He's old enough to be her father."

That wasn't how Jack would've put it. But close enough. At the sight of his enemy's meticulously manicured hand on her slim one, hatred seared white hot pain in Jack's chest and in his temples.

He should shoot right now. But he wanted the son of a bitch to know who executed him and why.