It wasn’t much, but it was something.

He had come to him at dawn, the man in black, this traitor, this mad monk. Balaton had wanted to kill him then, but knew he couldn’t. Not yet...he must bide his time, act only when he was assured of success. “In the morning,” the farmer had said, “by the cliffs on the eastern point of the island. I will see you there; I will find you....”

As the boat sliced through the open bay, Andrew Balaton’s heart thumped wildly and he watched his knuckles turn white on the wheel of the boat, but he couldn’t loosen his grip. He could feel the sweat pouring down from his armpits. He stank with fear. But this time he wouldn’t permit his fear to incapacitate him. He would act.

No. I will find you, orült szerzetes.

He could be confident now. There was no reason to worry about the old fears coming back. Why should they? He was the head of one of the world’s largest companies. He was accustomed to taking risks and dealing with the consequences of failure.

But there could be no failure now. Everything was at stake. As before.

It had been an excruciatingly hot day in Texas. He remembered that most vividly. He hadn’t been used to such heat. Although summers in Hungary could be brutal, he’d never experienced a summer like that one, his first in the United States. He met Judith Land out on the deserted trail where she had used to ride as a child. It was at her request. She had called him.

“Please come, Andrew. We can discuss our future. And I’ll bring the jewels. I promise.”

But she hadn’t. They were her trump card.

“I want a divorce, Andrew. Give me my freedom, and you can have the jewels. I’ll even talk to Daddy. He knows you’re a good executive. He’ll keep you on.”

“Do you know why I want the jewels?”

“No. And I don’t care. I just want to be left alone.”

“Judith, I love you. You’re the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. Stay with me. Give me a chance.”

“It won’t work, Andrew. I’m sorry.”

She had been unreasonable, intransigent. She didn’t love him. She never had. That, too, became clear to him. And there was nothing he could do to change her mind. She was in control, and he was lost.

“I know what you are, Andrew.”

“Ah, Judith, but you don’t.”

“Yes: you’re a coward. Deep down, you’re more terrified of me than I am of you.”

“No!”

And yet it was true. They both knew that.

She went pale when she saw the gun. He took some small satisfaction in that. She had backed up toward his horse; it was where he wanted her.

He fired the gun into the air. And then he walked away. Judith Land had cried out only once before she was rendered unconscious, and then died.

During the tortures, in Hungary, he used to hope— to silently pray as he waited—that the victims would talk or just go ahead and die. He never relished their cries of agony, as so many of the others did. He wasn’t a sadist. He was the one they would send into the cell, after the torture, to talk to the prisoners about their stubborn refusals to admit to their crimes against the state.