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arms, but the other fist hammered down on Court’s back and the top of his head with frantic repetition.
    The big Irishman tried head-butting Gentry, as well, but their heads were pressed against one another already; there was no room for him to get his skull back so that he could slam it forward.
    And then the fight slowed. And then the fight ceased.
    Court kept the pressure up on his victim’s throat, but he leaned back a bit to check Slattery’s face. His eyes had bugged out, his face had turned impossibly red and was covered with sweat that smelled like whiskey and vinegar and body odor. Court was over him, could see his own blood dripping off his lips from where the shot glass cut them. The red splotches speckled the Irishman’s forehead and stained red the sweat rivulets running into his eyes.
    The bulging eyes blinked weakly.
    Court let the rugby jersey loosen a bit. Quickly Dougal sucked air, gagged, and wheezed.
    Court’s face was inches from him. Gentry spoke through gasps from the exertion of the brutal fight. “The kid. Your boy . . . with the Down’s? He’s real?”
    Slattery’s tongue was swollen, his throat was nearly closed. He coughed bloody sputum. “I swear it.”
    Court nodded. He wiped sweat from his own brow. Still he spoke through gasps from his near hyperventilated state. “Okay . . . okay. Don’t worry. I’ll see to him. He’ll be okay.”
    The bugging eyes of the Irishman turned to him. Blinked tears mixed with blood that streamed down both sides of his face. Mucus sprayed from his nose as he sobbed. He nodded. Spoke through a clenched throat. “That’s just grand, lad. I take it back. You’ve got a soul. You’re a good man.”
    “Yeah.” Court brought his fingertips to the Irishman’s forehead. “That’s me.” He smoothed the man’s sopping-wet gray hair back gently.
    He nodded again.
    “I’m a goddamned saint.”
    In a swift single motion, Court Gentry scooped the Makarov from its resting place on the floor beside him, punched the suppressor into Dougal Slattery’s fleshy neck, and fired a single round up through his chin, through his tongue, through the roof of his mouth, through his sinus cavity, and into his brain. The .380-caliber hollow point projectile danced inside the skull of the fifty-four-year-old Irishman before coming to rest behind the left ear. Slattery’s protruding eyes turned glassy and remained wide-open in death.
    Court rolled off of Slattery’s chest and lowered himself onto his back on the floor next to the dead man. He was exhausted, drained, sapped of all energy and emotion. His face hurt where he had been punched, his stomach and leg hurt where he’d been stabbed and shot last winter.
    Together he and Slattery lay amid the shattered shambles of the little flat and stared vacantly together at the low ceiling.

FIVE
    The landing launch cleared the fog bank a half mile from shore. Behind it, lost in the mist, the Lithuanian freighter that had been Court’s transportation both to and from the Emerald Isle had already turned to the north, brought its engines to full power, and begun steaming for its home port. Court stood at the front of the small launch, squinting towards the docks of the Gdansk shipyard in front of him. He was the boat’s only passenger.
    He continued speaking into his satellite phone.
    “Paulus, I want to be very clear. Except your commission, every last cent goes to this patient. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.”
    “That is no problem. We can set up a small trust. Regular automatic withdrawals for the institution. I checked into it as you asked. It is the best establishment in Ireland for people with such conditions.”
    “Good.”
    He paused. Court could sense discomfort in the call. “Sir. You understand I will need to contact Sir Donald.”
    “Go ahead. But since you’ll be talking to him anyhow, tell him this. This money isn’t his. It isn’t mine. It belongs to the kid. He touches it . . . and I’m