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it once? She slipped off her engagement ring and put it into the pocket of her trousers.
    As if reading her thoughts, Bacci hugged Isabella, and whispered, 'If an old buzzard like me can find true love, Bella, anyone can -- especially someone as beautiful as you. If you want Leo back, he'll come, I promise.'
    'Sure, Papa.'
    'I mean it,' he said, stroking her hair. 'It's a scientific certainty, and one day I'll prove it to you.' She smiled at his optimism.
    WHENSHETURNED AWAY, SHE DIDN'T SEE HIM TAKE TWO HAIRS from her head, check that the follicles were attached and place them carefully on a dish next to the notepad by the phone, which read:
    Marco Trapani.
    Find out more about Kappel Privatbank and Comvec.
    Kappel anniversary 9 August.
    SOME HOURS LATER AND SIX TIME ZONES AWAY, A PREDATOR SWAM through the Caribbean. Its tail fins were almost four feet long and its slick black skin gleamed in the moonlight. As it neared the shore of St Martin in the French West Indies, it raised its head.
    Light from the moon reflected off the crescent of sand and La Samanna, perched high on the bluff overlooking the Baie Longue. The hotel's exclusive beach cottages lined the palm-fringed bay. It was almost three o'clock in the morning in August, low season in the Caribbean, but lights still shone in a few cottages.
    Reaching the shallows the creature lay still, ensuring that the coast was clear, then rose to its full height. Max Kappel was over six feet five inches tall and covered from head to toe in skin-tight black neoprene. He wore no scuba gear, just the simple equipment of a free diver: a small facemask and outsized fins. He removed the fins and strapped them to his legs, then pushed the mask on to his forehead and counted the cottages. He headed for the fourth.
    He rinsed his sandy feet in the water-filled shell on the veranda, then glanced through the locked sliding doors that led into the lounge, and crept to the bedroom window. The louvred glass slats were open but a fine mesh prevented mosquitoes entering the room. The air-conditioner was switched off and the ceiling fan whirred noisily. He peered through the slats and smelt a heavy, cloying perfume. A man lay on the bed, eyes closed, mouth open, fat sun-tanned belly rising and falling with each snore. He was naked, save for a thick gold neck chain, gold watch and two gold rings. His stubby penis was still erect. On one bedside table a torn cndom wrapper lay beside a smudged white line of cocaine and two blue tablets. On the other, a bottle of Armagnac stood next to three empty glasses. The rims of two were smeared with lipstick. The man's companions had departed. The party was over.
    He heard distant footsteps and eased into the shadows. The Corsican might be en vacances, but he would have a bodyguard in attendance. He waited until the footsteps receded, then moved to the sliding doors. The sea air had corroded the simple metal catch. He pulled out a wire from one of the waterproof pouches attached to his belt, bent it into a loop, then inserted it into the small gap between the doors and curled it round the catch. He pulled, and heard a small click. As silent as a shadow, he stole into the sleeping cottage.
    THECORSICAN SMILED IN HIS SLEEP. SINCE THE 1970S, ANTOINE Chabrol had exploited France's colonial links to buy into the poppyfields and marijuana plantations of Indochina, the Middle East and North Africa. Now in his sixties, he controlled the production of almost half the heroin supplied to Europe and America.
    Over the years, numerous distributors had tried unsuccessfully to muscle in on his market, and he took great pleasure in squeezing out the latest upstart: the Trapani family. The Sicilians had demanded a partnership deal because their pet scientists had developed a process that would make his product safer and more consistent in quality. But safety wasn't his or his Corsican brethren's concern so they had cut off the Sicilians' supply. Now he had heard that Marco