So teach us to number our days, that
we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.
Psalm 90:12

(The Greek word for wisdom is Sophia.)

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ONE

Zoe Ridgeway smelled it, felt it the instant she crossed the threshold of the imposing Swiss mansion. She tried to convince herself that she was imagining things. But even the long-lost Rembrandt hanging casually in the entryway couldn’t distract her thoughts from the conviction that death lived here.

“Herr Max is eager to see you,” said a tall, formal man in accented English as he gave her a short, stiff bow from the waist. “Please follow me.”

She followed the muscularly broad man through elegantly appointed rooms with high ceilings and white walls covered with masterpieces. Zoe knew he was more than just a butler when he bent over to pick up a fallen piece of paper and revealed the straps of a shoulder holster pressing against the fabric of his coat. She was married to a man who used to wear one and had learned to spot concealed firearms almost unerringly.

As Zoe followed the bodyguard through the house, she struggled to conceal her excitement. As a fine art appraiser and broker, she was used to having the priceless art treasures of the world pass through her hands with an almost banal regularity. Masterpieces were her daily bread. But now she struggled to keep the awe from her face as she recognized the paintings of one great master after another hanging casually about the drawing room as they passed through. On the wall above a gilded harpsichord, she spotted a Tintoretto that she knew had been missing since the early years of World War II. And next to that a Chagall thought to have been burned during the Nazis’ campaign against decadent art Music, a string symphony of joy, filled her head as her eyes took in one astounding work after another.

They reached a sitting room and the bodyguard motioned her to wait At the far side of the room, Willi Max slumped in his faux-Bauhaus wheelchair, looking more dead than alive.

In a silence broken only by Max’s ragged breathing, the bodyguard went to the wheelchair. He bent over and whispered. Willi Max sat up, suddenly animated like a puppet jerked to life. The bodyguard turned the wheelchair around to face her.

“Welcome to my home,” Max said warmly, his voice surprisingly strong. The bodyguard wheeled him toward Zoe. As he drew nearer, she made out a wizened old man with eyes the icy luminous blue of glaciers backlit by the sun. He held out a shaky hand. “I am so glad you could come on such short notice.”

Zoe took his hand. It felt dry, light, insubstantial, as if the life had already left this part of the man’s body.