No interruptions, just sleep, sleep, sleep.

5

"A dealer?" Abe said. "Plenty of dealers you know already. Why should you want to know another?"

He finished slathering margarine onto one of the kaiser rolls Jack had brought and took a huge bite.

"Not just any dealer," Jack said. "I need a guy who really knows his stuff. Somebody heavy into designer shit, who knows his chemistry and knows who's making what."

Jack had told Abe about his visit with Robert Butler and about the scene at the warehouse last night.

"A chemist, you say." Abe thought as he chewed.

"The best man I can think of is Tom Terrific."

Jack had heard the name but never met him. "I thought he was mostly crystal meth."

"That's his mainstay, but he dabbles in other things as well."

"Think he'd know about Berzerk?"

"If it's out there and people are buying it, Tom has probably figured how to make it."

"Sounds like my man. Where can I find him?"

"Always a good question with Tom. He tends to keep on the move." Abe pulled a little notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped through it. "Here it is."

"You keep his number?"

"He's a customer."

Jack could see why a speed merchant would want to keep some firepower handy.

"What did he buy?"

Abe did his baleful stare over the tops of his glasses. "A pizza, what else."

"Come on, Abe. I just like to know what people are carrying out there."

"You want I should tell people what you buy?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Then such things you shouldn't ask. I am a priest and the basement is my confessional."

Jack made a face but said no more. It had been worth a try.

Abe dialed a number, spoke for half a minute, then hung up.

"He'll see you, but it'll cost."

"I've got to pay just to talk to him?"

"He says he's a busy man. A hundred for fifteen minutes. A consultation, he calls it. Two o'clock this afternoon. And he wants me along because you he doesn't know."

"A hundred for you too?"

"I'm free," Abe said, taking another bite of the kaiser and sprinkling poppy seeds all over the counter.

As Jack mentally ran over the rest of the day, he watched Parabellum hop around pecking up the black specks and idly wondered if birds got high on poppy seeds. If Tom Terrific was at two, he'd have time to get out to Sal's and arrange another shipment of party favors for tomorrow night's soiree at Dragovic's.

He wondered how the Serb's place had looked at first light this morning. Couldn't have been pretty.

6

It's still a shambles, Milos thought as he stood at his bedroom window and surveyed the grounds below. But not as much as it was an hour ago, and much more of a shambles than it will be an hour from now.

The workmen were making good progress. It hadn't been easy to find them. Milos had spent a lot of time on the phone last night threatening, cajoling, and calling in a slew of favors to get these men out here on a holiday weekend, not to mention offering triple time and a 30 percent on-time completion bonus.

But the place had to be fixed up in time for tomorrow night's party. He could not allow the beautiful people of the Hamptons to see his place in anything less than perfect shape.

And he could not allow a word of last night's madness to reach the press. He had sworn his staff and last night's guests to secrecy. Most of them would comply, the former out of fear, the latter because none of them had acquitted himself particularly well during the tumult.

As for today's workers, they would see the tires and the damage but he doubted they could reconstruct what had happened. They'd probably say that the Slippery Serb must throw some awfully strange parties.

Of their own accord, Milos's hands knotted in fists. Who?

The question had plagued him all night. That he'd been attacked by a group calling itself the East Hampton Environmental Protection Committee had seemed absurd at first; yet when he considered that the assault had been aimed at his pride rather than his person, it became more believable. Whoever had planned it had not only guts, but a cruel and crafty mind. And that would be more in line with a clique of outraged locals than one of his hard-assed competitors. They would have dropped napalm.

"May I come in?"

Milos turned at Mihailo's voice. He sounded excited.

"What is it, Mihailo?"

The communications man stepped through the doorway and glanced about through his thick glasses. Probably hoping to catch Cino undressed, Milos thought. But after watching her in that thong bikini she'd worn around the pool yesterday—and Milos had no doubt every male in the household had ogled her at one point or another—what was left to see?

"Remember that license plate we saw on the surveillance tape last night? I had a contact in the DMV trace it."

"And?"

"It's registered to a Gia DiLauro who lives on Sutton Square in the city."

"You mean Sutton Place."

"That was what I thought," he said, running a hand through his thinning hair. "So I checked. Sutton Square is a little cul-de-sac off Sutton Place at the very end of East Fifty-eighth Street. Eight town houses at most. Very exclusive."

"But didn't you tell me the call was made from a pay phone in the East Eighties?"

Mihailo shrugged. "That's where the trace went."

Milos remembered the drab Buick on the tape last night. "A very ordinary car for someone at such a fancy address."

"I know. Could be a live-in maid."

"Could be."

Milos pondered this. If the owner had been from Jackson Heights or Levittown, he'd have dropped it. But if this Gia DiLauro was rich enough or connected to someone rich enough to live in an exclusive spot on the East Side—only thirty blocks from where that arrogant shit called last night—she easily could be connected to someone with a place out here. So she or someone close to her could be involved with the so-called protection committee.

"Tell Vuk and Ivo I want to see them."

They'd seen the couple on the beach. He'd send them into the city to check on this Gia DiLauro. If she was the same woman, they'd find out the name of the man.

And if he or she was in any way involved…

Milos ground a fist into his palm until it hurt.

The phrase scorched earth lingered in his mind.

7

"… Until then, think about hocking everything you own, begging, borrowing, and stealing every dime you can lay your hands on, and putting it all into GEM stock. Love ya. Bye."

The words echoed in Nadia's head as she walked down a sunny Park Avenue South—a different Park Avenue from the Waldorf neighborhood farther uptown. The sidewalks here were lined with office buildings and businesses instead of luxury residences.

She'd listened to the message twice on her voice mail before deleting it. Doug had sounded so strange. He'd probably been up all night, and that would explain it, but still… she wasn't sure she liked this manic side of him.

And worse, this was distracting her from her work. Not that she was getting anywhere. She'd spent yesterday and all this morning reviewing Dr. Monnet's failed approaches, and it seemed to her that he'd exhausted every possible route. Then she'd reviewed her predecessor's notes and seen that Macintosh had come up with new approaches, but none of those had worked either. Where to go from here? It was frustrating the hell out of her.

Nadia walked along tree-lined Twentieth Street until she came to the Gramercy Tavern. She wound her way through the crowded front room with its bar, wooden floors, and bare tables, and spotted Doug waving to her from the rear dining area. Carpeting and tablecloths back here.