Author’s Note

      This novel, based on real political events, is nevertheless a work of complete fiction, and, except for public personalities and incidents already known through the media, neither the characters nor the events are real. Some historical chronology has been altered for narrative purposes.

      Epigraph

      The whole universe is borne along by violence.

      No living being can refuse to admit responsibility for war.

      Who could sleep while others are dying?

      — Translated from The Mahabharata,

      adapted by Jean-Claude Carrière

      Part One

      GENGHIS KHAN

      1

      An architect enraptured with Louisiana had designed this palace, three storeys of it overlooking a cornice, typical of old Creole homes in the Deep South. Massive columns gave it a Greco-Victorian look, a definite aura of wealth that was confirmed by its four garages, each one wide as an avenue. Max O’Brien had learned from reading Car and Driver that one of them contained a veritable Ferrari room, decorated in red and black, in the middle of which sat a marvel of an Enzo, a Modena 360. The owner rarely took it for a spin, and then only on special days: summer, for instance, cruising down Fifth Avenue in order to get stuck in East Village traffic, then back again to its special shrine for the rest of the year, surrounded by furniture and mementos emblazoned with the Scuderia logo.

      In this upscale New York suburb, each crossroad ended in a circle of houses just as spectacular as this one. The neighbourhood was a magnet for the rich, who used such dead-end loops to insulate themselves from the rest of the world on huge fenced lots with fortressed homes.

      Each one, of course including the one where the Ferrari lived, was equipped with a sophisticated Securex L2245 security system, the very latest in personal protection — “Fort Knox has nothing on you!” said the ads for Bells & Whistles, a surveillance company based in Queens. In the pages of the New York Times they showed a tough, imposing baseball umpire, whistle in hand. On the menu were break-and-entry sensors, motion detectors, sirens, cameras, and other dissuasive measures, all relayed to headquarters, which looked more like Cape Canaveral than the dingy closets of any ordinary security companies.

      Naturally, this included all the old-school features. About a hundred well-selected, well-trained agents with spotless records and in exceptional physical condition, some with expertise in martial arts, patrolling the neighbourhood day and night, on foot and in cars. Dogs, too, trained to attack and intimidate. Huge monsters just drooling for the chance to lunge at any intruders and chew them to bits, or so the yellow-and-black notices posted on fences and at the entrances proclaimed.

      At the annual Burglars’ Convention and in the exclusive catalogue of places to consider knocking over, if such amenities existed, houses protected by Bells & Whistles would probably be marked off-limits with a big red star. Okay, hands off. Would the amateur weekend hiker try Mount Everest? What about Jacuzzi-waders plying the English Channel? Thinking of doing a Bells & Whistles place? Un-unh. Suicide, baby, suicide.

      So, of course, this morning, that is exactly what Max was planning to do, and in broad daylight as well. The haul would be 14.2 million. He could have his pick of these places, but he chose Chez Ferrari for three specific reasons. First, the house had been sold several times in recent years, and the previous owner, creator of the start-up Chronodesk, the San Diego computer giant, had passed it along to one of the heirs to the Toolbox stores — a chain selling office furniture kits out of Tampa — the present owner of the house in question.

      The second reason was that Gerry Monaghan, the heir, had taken an extended vacation in Ireland on the recommendation of his accountant, so he was spending the better part of a year at his cottage in Dún Laoghaire (eighteen rooms and a view of Dalkey Island), reaping the tax benefits offered to artists by the Irish government. He was, in fact, author of the book for the musical comedy hit Dip-Dip-Do-Yay! launched in 1989 on Broadway and reproduced from time to time by regional troupes all over the U.S.

      The third reason was the Ferrari.

      Normally, to pull off something like this, Max would need a formidable team to neutralize the horde of security agents, the dogs, and the surveillance system. He’d also need a mole inside Bells & Whistles to cover him so he could work in peace. Max was no ordinary thief, and for backup he had just one man, Jiri Schiller, a crook of his own ilk. Max had chosen him for his diploma from the Boston University School of Law. Specializing in real estate, Jiri had inherited from his old man — a trucker — a big physique, an equally big mouth, and a ravishing smile that swept both bankers and women off their feet.

      Max had chosen his victim with the same care as the Monaghan residence. Bill Lockwood had just been named head of the mortgage department at the Chase Manhattan Bank on Madison Avenue. Newly arrived from Cincinnati, he was full of the usual clichés — if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere, et cetera — and considered the promotion an opportunity from heaven, a springboard to who-knows-where. Today, whiz kid in mortgages: tomorrow, financial adviser to the President of the United States, why not? Max had hung out at the Manhattan Plaza Health Club tennis courts enough to know he was a blowhard, vain, pretentious, sure of himself, and, of course, ambitious. He also knew Lockwood had played hardball to get where he was, to the detriment of colleagues who lacked his “killer instinct.” He laughed about it under the shower after beating Max to a pulp.

      Divorced, with no children, Bill found Max (no … uh … better make that Max’s alter ego Robert Cheskin) the ideal confidant, whose ear he could fill with dream-bubbles and still not fear ridicule. Max had let on he was divorced, too, and in a custody battle with his ex over the house and Ferrari, his Ferrari. Imagine, he’d waited over three years for delivery! The house? Easy. There was always some excuse for not inviting Lockwood over, and anyway, the banker was too busy for a social life. His morning tennis games were the only exception to a long day at the office, his career coming before all else.

      In fishing, the wait is the hardest part, but the most important. Patience is a crook’s best friend, Max liked to say. To steal, you need to weave a web, and that means not being in a hurry. With Bill Lockwood, he took his sweet time, and only went into action after the web had become a masterwork of lace. Max could have waited longer, but that would have been a mistake. The amateur thief gets wrapped up in his own prowess and mesmerized by his own lies. His new identity is precious to him. It is reassuring and comfortable, so he puts off the time for action as long as he can. To move on feels a bit like death. A part of you disappears.

      That morning, Max called Lockwood to announce that he and his ex had finally agreed to settle on the house. It would be put on the market, and they’d each get half the proceeds. Max could sense Lockwood getting jumpy on the other end of the line. He was flapping his tail in circles around the bait. So much for Step One: the sucker was on the hook. Now for Step Two. It seemed the German buyer needed a mortgage, so naturally Max had recommended Lockwood: “Wait till you meet him. He’s a great guy.” This was far better than working with a bank in Stuttgart, which had no U.S. subsidiary anyway.

      “Mmmm,” hummed Lockwood, smelling blood in the water.

      Becoming a member of the club was a wise choice … a multimillionaire client had fallen into his lap, just like that. Not an ounce of effort required. They’d done right giving him the job in New York.

      “Just one small problem,” sighed Max. “The buyer won’t touch the Ferrari.”

      Lockwood was amazed: “What kinda moron is he?” he yelled. “A German? So what, Schumacher’s