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options. Killing Weiss was best, but it was unlikely to go unnoticed or unchallenged in such a crowd. It was also risky to murder the defector before the Agent was certain he had the Toxic. After the ruse with the dummy vial on Brocken Mountain, the Agent could not dismiss the possibility that Weiss might pull the trick again. The simplest ploy was to knock down Weiss from behind, then grab the bag in the confusion and quickly disappear into the masses. If the Agent couldn’t steal and authenticate the Toxic before the ship sailed, he’d finish his business on board.
    A steam whistle let out a blast. His whole body went taut. He was within thirty feet of Weiss—only to be brought to a dead stop by an unacceptable development.

8

    BOAT DOCK. SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND .
    WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10, 1912. 10:35 A.M .
    “Boy.”
    Weiss beckoned to a scruffy youth standing alone on the dock, peering up at
Titanic
’s imposing stacks from beneath an oversized newsboy’s cap. The child’s hands were stuffed inside a dingy, charcoal-colored coat that was too large by a third. Only scuffed leather boots were visible beneath the worn black cloth.
    “Who are you calling ‘boy’?”
    Weiss held out a few dull coins in the palm of his hand. “You, if it’s not too much bother. I’m offering a paying job. It’s simple enough, unless you have no use for money?”
    The child’s face brightened a bit. “Call me Lou.”
    The youth approached Weiss tentatively, the way a squirrel might creep toward an old man offering a handful of nuts. Lou appeared to be no more than eleven years old, perhaps twelve, with locks of rust-colored hair attempting to escape the confines of the cap. A patch of skin missing from his nose indicated a spill or a fight. The scrape suited him, either way.
    Weiss eased the urchin a few coins. “Just stand here and talk to me.”
And anyone searching the crowd will expect me to be alone,
he thought,
not traveling with a child.
“My stomach is feeling a littleunsettled. I’ll gladly pay for a little conversation. It would be a welcome distraction.”
    “Seasick already? We’re not even on the boat!” The boy examined the coins—they appeared genuine. With a shrug, he cleaned his right hand against his cloth coat and offered it to Weiss. “Lou Goodwin. Good to know you.”
    “Hello, Lou,” said Weiss. “I’m G. P. Nosworthy.”
    “It’s a pleasure, G. P.”
    “That’s Mr. Nosworthy to you.”
    Lou arched an eyebrow. “High class, I get it. A real Guggenheim.”
    Weiss stared blankly. “A real Googen … ?”
    Lou pointed to a parade of first-class passengers making their way across a gangplank six stories up. “Guggenheim,” the kid said, noting a gentleman in an expensive straw hat. “He’s the one with the hundred-pound mustache.”
    Weiss frowned. “How do you know that’s Mr. Guggenheim?”
    “He’s the Sultan of Smelt!” cried Lou. “Worth millions! Don’t you read the papers?”
    “I generally don’t find gossip and scandal worth reading,” said Weiss.
    “Whatever you say, mister. But I’ll tell you this: I sell fifty copies before noon most days. With good gossip, seventy-five.” Lou sized up the strange gentleman with the odd accent. “What are you in, anyway?”
    “Exports,” the German replied.
    Judging by Weiss’s rather ordinary clothing, Lou decided there must not be much money in exports.
    Weiss was now only ten or twelve people away from the ticket takers. He looked around furtively for signs of anyone following him. All seemed ordinary. He was nearly on the ship, mere steps away from escape.
    “Oh! There’s one for you,” said Lou. “That’s the Lady Cardeza. ‘Lady’ because she used to be married to a Spanish king or duke or some sort. Watched them unload her automobile this morning—how many trunks you wager she’s bringing on board?”
    “I couldn’t speculate,” said Weiss, becoming distracted as the line trickled forward.
    “Would it kill you to