The trophy of that first job was in the safe in his New York apartment. He’d only worn it once in public, that dazzling pocket watch with its equally beautiful fob, both encrusted with gemstones, ancient, priceless, created for a Doge of Venice in the sixteenth century. He had argued that it would be too dangerous to sell it anywhere, that it was on every list of stolen jewelry all over the world, that inevitably it would be traced back to him. Not true, of course. He wanted it for himself. He wanted to be able to put it on when he was alone, wear it with the brocaded dressing gown that closely resembled the ornate robes of a Doge and imagine that he was the master of Venice, the one who had built St. Mark’s Cathedral as a private chapel.

Turning from the mirror, Cameron walked to the dresser, snapped on the Rolex watch that was a poor substitute for the hidden treasure, and reached for his card case. No, he thought as he put them back. I’m not handing these out to anyone on this ship. His cards, discreet, in exquisite taste with raised lettering on fine paperstock, gave his home address, 66 Gramercy Park South, New York City. No one need know he was in a rent-stabilized walk-up. He’d been smart enough technically to live with his father and never take a place of his own. The bitchy owners hadn’t been able to repossess the apartment when the old drunk finally passed out for the last time. His occupation was listed as “personal investment counselor,” which never failed to impress and which satisfied any curiosity about his lack of direct business commitment.

Cameron felt good. He was getting the sense he was on a winning streak. By the end of the trip two bodies would be bobbing around in the Atlantic. As he started for the cocktail lounge, he envisioned the moment when two hundred thousand dollars in cash was placed in his hand.

Chapter 15

GAVIN GRAY ENTERED the cocktail lounge and looked around with an experienced eye. Not a very interesting group, he thought. There was the usual assortment of couples, some with the air of seasoned travellers, some overly dressed for first night, beaming with joy, overwhelmed by their good fortune at being one of the one-half of one percent of the people on earth who could afford to sail across the Atlantic. They’d probably never ridden anything bigger than the Staten Island ferry before, Gavin thought, dismissing them. It would be easy to avoid that type. They’d undoubtedly spend most of their time writing postcards that all started with “Wish you were here.”