Jessup opened the lockbox. There were two compartments in it. He opened the left compartment, and took out four thin folders. He looked at the folders, and read off the names. "Domino, Madrigal, Sextant, and Gemstone. To begin with, we have no records of these names, no idea who these agents are. From the contents of the files, it appears that these are people with whom Ogden worked in the past, people he could trust, and who owed him a high degree of loyalty." He hesitated. "It is not unknown for someone in Ogden 's position to maintain such outside connections. It is contrary to accepted procedure, but it is not unknown."

Which meant that he had a few of his own.

"But we know nothing more than that, not even if these are males or females. I'm going to ask you to read the files now. Pass them among you and read all four of them. To save time, please note that each assignment sheet contains the same opening paragraphs, an introduction of sorts. The individual assignments follow the opening."

He passed out the folders, and we read. On each assignment sheet, the opening paragraphs were:

Dear old friend, I have a task for you, one which I am sure you will approach with the same unquestioning devotion and fierce dedication that you have displayed to me so often in the past. I must tell you, however, that this is likely to be the last assignment you will ever receive from me. Tomorrow I enter Bethesda Naval Hospital for an exploratory operation. The good doctors will open up my head and peer at my brain, and although I know not what they will find, I have my strong suspicions. There have been signs: blackouts, severe headaches, hallucinations, flashes of vivid color, and the odor of freshly sharpened pencils in my nostrils. Yes, I have a good idea what they will find. They will look inside my skull, shake their heads sadly, and close me up again with nothing to be done. Perhaps not. Perhaps my pessimism is misplaced, but I rather think that I am right, and so I have a task for you.

You know me as an arrogant man, and I do not deny it. More than that, I revel in it, for I have accomplished much in my life, and my arrogance is well earned. Even my enemies grant me that. I have lived my life at a level far above that of the ordinary man. I have shaken nations. I have changed the lives of hundreds of thousands. I have dammed up the rivers of history, and have set them on new courses. And having done all that, I find myself reluctant to leave this world in the way of the ordinary mortal…facing the unknown alone. There was a time, long ago, when a man such as I am went into the darkness accompanied by a slaughter of jesters and slaves, with the body of his faithful dog at his feet, with a sacrifice of virgins all around, and with a ceremonial fire that roared on the altar. In my well-earned arrogance I see myself as the direct descendent of such men, entitled to the same ceremonials, and the same companions on my voyage. I am willing to make concessions in numbers, but I insist on the symbols. I must have my sacrifices, my jester and my virgin, my bulldog and my sacred blaze. I wish them, I demand them, and I am calling on you, who have served me so well in the past, to make one of them possible.

Those were the opening paragraphs on each sheet. Then, individually, these followed.

Gemstone, your job is the fire, and even as I write these words I am visited by nostalgia, by the odor of rose bushes burning. Do you remember the aroma? Gasoline and roses in the villa in Quon Trac, the garden burning in the night. Do you remember how the odor blocked the smell of roasting flesh? You were good at it, Gemstone, as good as they come. I remember how you loved it all. I remember the look in your eye and the smile on your lips when you smelled the rose bushes burning, and now I have another blaze for you to set.

I want you to burn down a house. Not much of a job for your talents, I know, but it is the ceremony I have chosen and it will serve as a symbol for my pyre. The Southern Manor is a rather tacky little rooming house in the town of Glen Grove, Florida. It is a typical haven for the retired and the elderly, and I want it destroyed. I want it burned to the ground and made uninhabitable sometime between the dates of 28 February and 4 March. This is the blaze that I want for my altar, and I ask it of you. Should the opportunity present itself, you may throw a rose on the embers.

Your usual fee has been deposited in the Zurich account. Gibraltar Rules apply.

Sextant, your job is the virgin. Yes, I know that in the age in which we live the term is likely to be figurative, but this is the one I have chosen. Her name is Lila Simms, and she is a sixteen-year-old high school junior who lives in the small town of Rockhill, New York, in the Hudson Valley. There is nothing distinctive about the girl; she is a normal, decent teenager. Her interests are prosaic: dancing, rock music, tennis in the summer, skiing in the winter. Her school grades are average, and although she dates frequently, she has no steady boyfriend. This is the sacrifice I require, and I want it performed within the time frame of 28 February to 4 March. These are your instructions.

I want her raped, Sextant. Not just raped, but gang-raped by many men. I do not want her life, in fact I forbid you to take it, but I want her brutalized and I want it done in a fashion that will insure the maximum public attention and notoriety. My aim is her humiliation and her degradation; that will be sacrifice enough. Do this, Sextant, to speed me on my way.

Your usual fee has been deposited in the Geneva account. Gibraltar Rules apply.

Domino, I want you to slay me a bulldog to lie at my feet, but here I must confess to a weakness. I have ordered the deaths of many men, and have borne silent witness to the deaths of many others, but I have never killed an innocent animal, not deliberately, and I cannot order you to do so. The action is beyond me. Strange, but there it is, a weakness I have had all my life, and so this killing must be symbolic.

If you search among the small colleges of the northeast part of our country, you will find that Polk College, in New Hampshire, and Van Buren College in upper New York State, are traditional rivals in the sport of basketball. Each year they play against each other in the final game of the season, and the winner of that game will goes on to play in the Easter Holiday Tournament of Champions at Madison Square Garden. Having said that, I must point out that Van Buren is given little chance of getting into the tournament this year. Polk is too strong for them, even though Van Buren may well have its first winning season since its glory days of twenty years ago. Even now, well in advance of the game, Polk is heavily favored by the bookmakers.

And so, your assignment. The Van Buren team is called the Cavaliers. The Polk team is known as the Bulldogs, and therein lies my symbol. Van Buren must win. Polk must lose. The Bulldog must die. It's as simple as that, and I don't care how you do it. Bribery suggests itself, but I leave the details in your hands. Those hands that have served me so well, and now this final task, faint echo of past triumphs. But do it for me, as you always have. Slay me my bulldog on the first of March.

Your usual fee has been deposited in the Bern account. Gibraltar Rules apply.

Madrigal, I would have a jester to ride by my side on this darkest and longest of journeys. How wise the old ones were to take along a fool who could whistle in graveyards and mock eternal night. A jester, mind you, not a source of true wit or humor. I credit myself with a sufficiency of satire, and a sense of the ironic; I need no help in those departments. What I must have is a clown, a low-down thigh-slapper, a baggy-pants comedian, a mouther of banalities. In short, a buffoon, and I have found just the man.