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that only a fool could have missed them. Finally Reston said, “I can’t give you a definitive answer right now. I need to go over the figures one more time. Tell me, are kickbacks involved?”
    “In the purchase?” Addario shrugged. “This is Sicily. There are always kickbacks. You can’t even repaint your front door without bribing some official or other. And there are certain other bodies one must always take into account...” He wasn’t going to say the word mafia out loud.
    “I thought the Empire had put paid to all that.”
    “The Empire likes to think it has. We Sicilians know better. Some of our traditions go back further than the end of Fortress Europe and the installation of the High Priests. Does that change anything?” Addario asked, a little plaintively.
    “It bumps up my initial outlay,” Reston replied. “But all said and done, things are looking positive.”
     
     
    A FTER A DDARIO HAD seen Reston off at the airport, he headed straight to his apartment in Palermo’s Four Corners district to share the good news with the woman who mattered most to him. Then he went home to his wife.
    Signora Addario wasn’t surprised to learn that Reston, in person, was a reticent, tightly buttoned individual. “Didn’t you tell me he lost his wife and child recently?” she said. “You can’t expect a man touched by so profound a tragedy to be overflowing with joy.”
    “But they sacrificed themselves to the gods,” said her husband. “Many would consider that a badge of honour.”
    Once again Signora Addario was forced to confront the fact that the man she had married was an idiot of the highest order.
    “Would you,” she said, “not be distraught if I put myself forward to have my heart carved out by the priest?”
    Provided he could find it , Addario thought, but said, “My dear, it would leave me helpless with grief, but I would somehow find the strength to carry on.”
    To carry on visiting that trollop you keep in the Four Corners , his wife thought, but said, “There, then. Somehow Signor Reston is finding that strength. Clearly it comes harder to some than others.”
     
     
    S TUART R ESTON’S FLIGHT home was delayed because the disc had to wait for a VIP passenger whose connecting flight from Tangier was running behind schedule. When the VIP finally stepped aboard, he made his way to the first class cabin without tendering regret or apology to anyone. He swanned through business class with his pair of burly minders as if no one had been inconvenienced here but himself. He was a priest – plainclothes, no robes, but the sacred facial tattoos gave the game away – and other people’s considerations came second to a priest’s. That was just how it was. If you didn’t like it, tough. Take the matter up with the gods.
    For the entire hour of the journey, as the disc skimmed over sea and France, Stuart wrestled with his better judgement. It lost, he won.
    If an opportunity comes , he told himself, if you think you can get away with it, go for it.
    At Heathrow, the priest was first out of the disc and onto the gangway. For him, there would be no standing in line at customs and passport control. International travel was a breeze for the theocracy. Wherever they went, they were just waved on through.
    Stuart still got the chance he was looking for, however. No sooner had the priest entered the terminal than he had to answer a sudden, rather urgent call of nature. He scuttled off to the nearest public convenience, minders in tow.
    After a pause, Stuart followed.
    The minders had taken up position just inside the door to the gents, forming a two-man wall. Both were giants – professional security consultants with necks as broad as their heads and wrists as thick as their fists.
    “Sorry, sir,” said one to Stuart. “You can’t use this facility right now.”
    “Try somewhere else,” the other chimed in.
    Stuart hopped from foot to foot as though his bladder was past capacity. “But I’m