Richard left the stolen car at the shopping mall and took a bus up the coast to a small fishing village near the France/Italy border. His destination was Genoa but he needed a double blind before leaving France, just in case. His emergency kit had been expressed from a rented postal box in England to another rented box in Monte Carlo.

From there a private delivery firm was directed to drive the package to the post office closest to where Richard was staying, receiving an envelope of cash for predetermined charges. It had been a lot of phoning and brow beating but in the end he had his emergency kit and the trail, while not completely safe, was vague enough to give him a measure of comfort.

Losing the hounds had been almost laughably simple and Richard wondered if he was underestimating his hunters; how they got to him originally was still an unanswered question. Monique was another pail of fish altogether.

He had no doubt that Nathan would already know she had surrendered the password code and which bank held the money. He didn't believe for a second that she would trust him to leave her a share.

He found another small pension on a part of the cliff overlooking the Mediterranean coast and paid a little extra for anonymity saying he was a writer trying to meet a deadline and was being hounded by reporters working for an opposition magazine. The woman nodded, crinkling her ancient face with a conspiratorial wink. As far as she was concerned he hadn't even checked in. Richard thanked her and sealed her assurance with additional compensation.

In the tidy room decorated like a dollhouse he set out all his gear on the bed and stood back assessing his needs. The cover alias passport was burned; Nathan would have that flagged along with the international driving license. If he were to continue with his plan to disappear money would be needed - soon; what he had in the briefcase wouldn't last very long under present circumstances.

He counted out the Euros from Roger and Pierre and the various other currencies always carried and set them aside. Next he piled the useless paperwork in another section. The gun was essential for a while and the Glock was easily transportable through all but the most sophisticated screens because of its plastic construction.

Acquiring it had been a study in obfuscation with several cut-outs between Richard and the dealer. The magazine held thirty-three rounds of nylon tipped copper cartridges, far deadlier than Agency issue.

The owner of his latest hideaway would certainly have second thoughts if she could see that, he chuckled. He walked to the window and stood staring out at the blue sea, letting the flapping curtains dust his face. Nathan would be on high alert to all the money institutions, looking for any significant movement of funds and Murray, like Paul Revere, would be booted and spurred and ready to ride at the first suspicious sign.

Caution was the watchword. Getting the money would be more than difficult; he needed a plan. He also needed clothing and realized that it should be a selection that would take him anywhere. Gathering up the spent paperwork he burned it in the sink then when certain he wouldn't be seen, slipped away from the small inn with his belongings and made his way to the bus stop and caught the next ride to the Italian border.

From there he managed a taxi to Genoa and sought out another anonymous room, not too isolated, until he had to move again. Without checking out of the pension the assumption was that the trail would end there and the owner wouldn't have a clue as to where he went. Later he would send some money to cover any loss the elderly owner might incur.

England - October - 2011

The view over the lake was spectacular. Autumn was jealously clinging to the landscape of trees on the opposite shore and the two men sat silently, nursing drinks.

"I think we are on the downward slope now. Carstairs has both passwords to the bank account."

"He still needs to get to the actual money; it will be interesting to see if our plan works."

"I'm surprised you are still doubtful."

"With good reason, my friend. I have already experienced the wiles of Richard Carstairs."

"But we have explored every contingency; he is after all just a man."

"Not to me." The remark snapped the previously enjoyed mood. "Only when we have the funds and he is dealt with will I feel a measure of relief."

"I will keep a close eye on the proceedings and assure that soon you will feel that measure."

"Thank you, Desmond; I'll await your report.

Italy - October - 2011

A rental room in a guesthouse just north of the old port in a less commercial section of the waterfront suited to a tee and after a sound night's sleep he went out to find breakfast. A taxi pulled up to the front of the rooming house just as Richard came out and the convenience had him hesitating and scanning the street. The cab driver jumped out and began a babble of Italian until Richard asked for English.

"Oh sorry, signor," a shrug, "I come to this area regularly, I have a cousin who runs an albergo on the same strada."

Richard nodded uncertainly and climbed in the back.

"Where to, signor."

"What about your cousin's?"

The driver shrugged an embarrassed smile, which Richard interpreted to mean the cousin didn't pay him for bringing in business. He insisted on a short drive along the coast to the town of Rapallo and a ristorante he swore was the best food in all of Italy.

Equipped with sufficient funds to manage and the outline of a plan, the drive allowed him to relax for the first time in a while and enjoy the scenery and the weather. The recommended establishment was right on the waterfront amid the cluster of shops dealing in all things marine and provided some very basic fare in the form of bouillabaisse, crusty bread and heavy wine.

Not what he really wanted for a breakfast but he found that he was quite hungry and in the end dug in with a modicum of gusto. The owner must pay well for customers, he laughed to himself, tasting the stew.

He borrowed a paper and sat on the wooden bench beside the trot, eating and catching up on local news. Almost immediately his eye caught a small article about the bodies of two unrelated people, a man and a woman found in an alley behind a row of shops in the town Richard had just left.

Because the news was so late breaking there was no other information except to point out that the police were asking for any assistance from the public who may have noticed anything at all around the popular stationery shop.

He dropped the paper on the table and looked out at the harbor. This had Nathan's prints all over it - his and Murray's. There was no doubt in Richard's mind that the two bodies belonged to Jacques Dupres and the woman who owned the shop. He was trimming Monique's personal sources from the new network he wanted to set up and he wasn't wasting any time.

The sun danced on the outer harbor as the sea shifted against the breakwater with a rhythmic swell. A small power boat seemed to be idling beyond the breakwater and he pictured a local fisherman gathering his morning income.

The imagined view from the residential sections that had risen along the shore and up into the hills behind the old port drew an appreciative sigh; his own room had a partial view of the busy harbor.

While staring at the mesmerizing panorama the boat he had noticed earlier chugged up to the trot near Richard's bench and a young woman nimbly hopped onto the dock, securing the craft before climbing back down and assembling a pile of gear. Richard took in the halter-top, the snug shorts and the trim figure.

She slipped on a cardigan, slung a backpack over her shoulder and started down the trot toward him. He kept watching her because something was ringing a bell in his memory and before he could remember she stopped beside his table and looked at him.

"Voir tout ce dont vous avez besoin?" The question was delivered with a dose of sarcastic insolence.

He held up his hands and smiled. "Sorry, it- you just reminded me of somebody and I was trying to place who." He replied in French, continuing the smile. "I'm not some ogling pervert and I apologize if I appeared offensive."

"Usually it is some ogling pervert I encounter down here."

"Can't blame them," Richard said, broadening the smile.

Her eyes squinted and she jutted one hip defiantly.

He stood and offered his hand, switching to English."Sorry again. Before I get in any more trouble may I introduce myself, Richard Carstairs."

She glanced at his hand and then back at his eyes.

"English."

"Yes. Sorry, another failing."

A tiny lift of her mouth suggested he had breached her humourless façade.

"René Morreau." Her fingers were cool and brief in contact.

"Could I salvage my English dignity by offering you a coffee or something?"

"Perhaps another time, Mister Carstairs. I have an appointment I must keep."

"Does that mean there's a good chance later or should I simply savour the memory of having met you?"

"You are sounding more like that ogling pervert." She said, but with a smile as she turned away.

"I'm crushed." He called after her. The image of Cora Whycliffe raced across his mind.

"My meeting ends at noon." She said no more and proceeded saucily down the trot and around the corner of the restaurant.

Richard sat back down and unfolded his paper. A female companion might serve to give him a bit of cover from the hounds, particularly if he could move about in her boat. If things went well he might even have a beard to collect the money from the bank; a plan percolating in his mind.

He called for more coffee and checked his watch . . . ten fifteen.