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WHAT CAME BEFORE ...

An eerie figure stepped out of the shrubbery silently like a ghost. His presence seemed to pollute the air all around him. His face was masked and his hands were covered with black gloves. For a full minute he stood in death-like silence as his evil eyes studied his environment with a cold precision. Only the sound of the fountain's cascading waters greeted him.

A short distance away, huge electric bulbs, like sparkling balls of fire, loomed over the lush greenery of Glennon Park, capturing its beauty in a halo of kaleidoscopic brilliance. As usual, a throng of men, in a variety of bright summer garments intermixed with women, some in jeans and T-shirts, others in shorts and fancy sleeveless tops, moved about chatting and laughing. But the fountain, which stood in a dark and isolated area of the park and surrounded by luxuriant shrubs, was hardly visited at night, except by some youths who loved to exploit the darkness for romantic mischief.

On this particular night there were no lovers necking by the fountain, but there was something else. A gleaming Cadillac occupied by a lady was neatly parked beside the fountain. This was an unusual sight, cars were not allowed this far into the park and this Cadillac had violated that rule. Whatever fantasies within the limits of human accomplishment its driver might have originally conceived, this was certainly the wrong night for it.

The eerie figure, seeing the car, made a sudden gesture as his pulse quickened. This would be his last murder. The climax of a long, enterprising career as the greatest assassin of all time. He was a killer so efficient and so elusive that even the FBI nicknamed him "Shadow of Death" for his uncanny ability to dissolve into mere shadow after every hit.

He mopped his face with a handkerchief and contemplated the victim's mesmerizing elegance and her fairy-tale beauty. Victim! He thought and winced. Even now, it seemed odd to think of her as a victim. He had loved her once. In fact, he still loved her and therein lay the irony - a fatal confrontation of his obsession with his survival instinct. The survival instinct, of-course, must win, for between them now stood the only thing that love could not conquer - a secret. A very dark secret.

The "Shadow of Death" glided stealthily toward the Cadillac, his face intense on the terrible deed he was about to accomplish. His only accomplice was his own shadow, perceptible to no eye but one. It was innocuous and apparition-like, only there to see, not to comment. It moved when the assassin moved and stopped when he did, like a minion with no initiative of its own, a robot programmed to repeat the action of its mentor, silently, as only a ghost would; then saddled thereafter with the damning knowledge of the truth, a truth that would elude the rest of the world. An everlasting witness. A ghost that would never die.

Inside the Cadillac there was silence. A deafening silence. A canopy of ominous cloud sprawled across the night sky. The summer night was neither hot nor cold. There was no wind at all and thankfully, no humidity. All around the expensive car darkness closed in as slowly and unfalteringly as the approaching evil. The assassin's face was expressionless but his facial muscles were taut, his heartbeat was regular. Outwardly, he was calm, almost casual, with no noticeable signs of panic. He was, after-all, a pro.

He opened the driver's door of the car silently with his gloved hand. She did not see him, could not see him because her face was turned downwards. He stared, fascinated, the roaring tension inside him silenced by his cold determination. Everything would depend on this moment, this act. His eyes darted everywhere, he did not want any interruption and there was none. He reached for her throat silently, swiftly, giving her no chance to react. There must be no error, he thought callously.

He had taken about five minutes to plan this murder and now he needed about the same time to execute it. His pressure on her throat was fierce, it was a vice grip. Time, thoughts, fear, regrets, all ceased to exist as an eternity seemed to roll by in a few seconds. Then silence. And relief flooded his being. It was over, he almost smiled. The work bore the mark of his usual professional touch - smooth, fast, painless and very, very peaceful...

Chapter 1

Rita Spencer waited nervously at the Riviera Country Club in the Pacific Palisade for hours, her impatience growing into mild irritation, unease, frustration. She read magazines and newspapers to while away the time. She drank fruit juice then whisky to calm her nerves. She paced the reception area, chatted with the barman, and scanned faces. For five hours there was no sign of Leland Gates. She felt a strong urge to telephone the Banana Bungalow but resisted it with all her might. If that room was bugged as Leland Gates feared then some evil men might just eavesdrop.

This was not happening, she thought. But wasn't it? Something was certainly wrong; she could feel it in her bones. Had Leland picked a tail and was unable to shake it off? That didn't jell, he had said it didn't matter if someone followed her down here; she was to pretend not to notice. Or had he inadvertently walked into trouble? That too seemed unlikely, he had said he would call for assistance and would rout the bastards who had been shadowing them. And he asked her to trust him. Trust? Damn.

The thought of the FBI agent changing his mind about this meeting was unsettling to Rita. Even more unsettling was the silly idea flashing across her mind that this might have been deliberate - a calculated attempt to unnerve her - Was that it? After being told that whoever understood the secret of the ALTAMA was marked for death, was it possible that Leland Gates deliberately stayed away to drive home the point? To emphasize the seriousness of the situation? As silly as this seemed, Rita spent a considerable amount of time turning it over in her mind. If that sinister cartel he talked about relied on brutal tactics, she mused, wasn't it logical that the FBI could try a psychological approach?

It certainly was not beneath the Bureau to calculate that if she were sufficiently frightened, Rita reasoned, she would quickly turn over that diary to them. And if that were so, she decided, then they had underestimated her. She believed she had an in-built mechanism to withstand it all to the bitter end, a kind of shock-absorber left inside her by years of pain and sorrow. They didn't take into consideration that she was a lawyer - a Marty Hepburn lawyer - whose defense prowess was embedded in the amount of information she could garner. Everything was important, every little bit. She felt that as long as she was the only person on earth who knew where that forbidden diary was kept, as long as it stayed out of the reach of everyone else, they - the FBI and the men of the ALTAMA - would only watch her and not harm her. Was she right? Was she wrong?

Undoubtedly, something just wasn't right this night, she felt that sensation strongly in her bones. At 10 p.m. she decided that she had waited enough. She stormed out of the country club, entered her car and drove straight home. It was as much as she could take for one day. She felt no anger now, no frustration. Nothing. It just felt good to be home again. Home, she thought. Bollocks. First time in her life she owned a home, a villa for whatever it was worth, she was made to feel alienated from it because someone had said it was swarming with diabolic listening devices. Rita resisted an urge to search. She would be careful on the phone from now on, she decided. When this nightmare was over she would get someone to comb the place thoroughly and remove the bugs wherever they were hidden. Or perhaps it would be a good idea to sell the house and buy another one.

She would consider everything properly later. For now that decision can wait. What couldn't wait was a bodyguard. Tomorrow, she told herself, she would ask Carlton for one of his bodyguards. Yes, she would do just that. There must be no more surprises. Rita Spencer entered her bedroom. Everything seemed exactly the way she had left them, except that on her telephone answering machine the red light was blinking. Someone had called. Leland Gates, she thought and quickly dismissed the thought, he wouldn't call, he knew the phone was tapped. Carlton maybe. She went up to the machine and punched the button. A voice - a male voice, a stranger - said to go to her Internet chat room for a message. A message? It had to be someone who knew that she regularly sent and received coded messages in the guise of an ordinary chat-room buff. Marty Hepburn?

Rita threw her handbag on the bed and ran out of the bedroom, into the study. Yes, there was a visitor in the chat-room all right but not a regul...