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Trapani was briefing his scientists to create a cheaper synthetic heroin. In time Chabrol would control that, too. He grinned in his sleep as he pictured Marco Trapani wearing a Corsican Smile -- his throat cut from ear to ear.
    One thing Chabrol no longer controlled was his prostate, and the insistent pressure on his bladder pierced his dreams. He rolled out of bed and padded across the cool terracotta tiles to the bathroom. He remembered the two putains who had serviced him earlier. He had asked his contact in Marigot to supply him with two underage girls prepared to do anything, and both had exceeded his most depraved imaginings.
    He stepped into a puddle and frowned. He had told the girls not to use the shower. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the luminous dial on his gold Rolex: 3:11. Not bothering to switch on the bathroom light, he shuffled past the bath to the lavatory and groaned. That was the problem with Viagra: it got you up but it kept you up for hours. Concentrating hard, he relaxed and emptied his bladder. As happened often now, when he thought he had finished he felt a pressing need to carry on. After the third false stop, a sound snapped him fully awake. The bathroom door had closed behind him.
    The lock clicked and he swivelled round. When he saw the towering black figure in the gloom his first instinct was to call out, but before he could open his mouth something cold and metallic pressed against his lips. Then a huge hand gripped his right shoulder and turned him back to the lavatory. The gun barrel moved to his neck. When he looked down his erection had gone and the sporadic flow had become an unstoppable stream.
    'Apres que vous ayyez finit, Monsieur' someone whispered in his ear.
    AS MAX KAPPELSTOOD IN THE GLOOM, PRESSING THE SILENCER OF his Glock against Chabrol's tanned, flabby flesh, he felt nothing. No excitement, no disgust, no fear and certainly no pity. He was simply doing a job for his father and the family business. It was no different from any other job he had done in the past. When Chabrol had finished, Max passed him a towel to cover his nakedness. 'Lower the seat and sit down.'
    The Corsican's tanned face was pale. 'Who are you? What do you want?'
    Max watched him with detached interest. Even the toughest men find it difficult to control their fear in the early hours, particularly when an armed stranger surprises them buck-naked while taking a piss. He sighed and sat on the side of the bath. 'You've been making life difficult for one of our clients.'
    'Who?'
    'Marco Trapani.'
    Recognition flickered in the Corsican's eyes. 'I know you. You're with Kappel Privatbank.' He recovered some of his composure. 'You came to my offices in Ajaccio.'
    Max nodded. 'To negotiate an agreement on behalf of our client. I pleaded with you to be reasonable. Do you remember your parting words?'
    A malevolent grin flashed across Chabrol's features. 'Trapani's going to be a dead client soon so why don't you fuck off back to Zurich?'
    'You have an excellent memory, Monsieur.' Max reached into one of the waterproof pouches on his rubber belt. He retrieved a glass vial of snow-white powder and a PowerDermic vaccine gun. 'But when you threaten the life or livelihood of one of our clients you threaten the Kappels.' He inserted the vial into the base of the gun with the deft precision of a marksman.
    Sweat sheened Chabrol's forehead. 'What's that?'
    'Your passport to oblivion.'
    'Surely we can come to an agreement,' Chabrol said. 'You're a banker.'
    'It's too late. You should feel honoured, Monsieur. If you were going to have a simple accident we might have used Stein and his ex-Stasi agents. They're very good -- the East Germans trained their secret police well. However, when we use one of our proprietary prisons we prefer to keep it in the family.'
    Max tapped the glass vial and the white powder flurried like snow. 'This is a genetic poison developed by my brother at our Comvec laboratory. It's a gene-therapy viral