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disappeared — and so did their workers, abandoning the villages which over a long period had crumbled. Max flashed his torch again as he saw a massive rubber dinghy approaching. This
    was the only place it could land its powerful passenger_
    A crude landing stage with rails projected into the water and Max signalled again to guide the dinghy in. It moved swiftly but its muffled engine made hardly any noise beyond a gentle purr.
    Max was over six feet tall, burly, quick with his hands and feet. He had been the most productive lumberjack in Canada. There he had killed one of his fellow workers who owed him money and refused to pay. Removing the knife from the corpse he had used a chainsaw to fell a poor-quality tree, guiding it so it landed across the body. The rest of the crew were working a distance away and Max knew no one would be interested in the fallen tree.
    Max immediately went to Vancouver, caught a flight to London. He spent time in the East End where he learned to speak like a Cockney. His next move was to use some of the pile of money he'd earned to buy the best clothes.
    He then spent time in some of London's top hotels, listening carefully to how the guests spoke. He was educating himself to mix in any environment. He had an acute brain so he soon boarded a flight to Paris.
    He took a job as a bouncer in a high-class nightclub off the Champs-Elysées. His tough but well-shaped features and fair hair appealed to women. He liked women but in his role as a bouncer avoided getting involved. By now he was speaking fluent French.
    Late one night when the club closed he walked out, wandered into a classy bar which was empty, he thought, as he ordered a drink from the barman. Normally he was careful, taking euros from a few in his trouser pocket. This time he made a mistake. He took out his wallet stuffed with money. A fat man appeared from nowhere, grabbed for the wallet.
    Max held on to the wallet, used his left hand to hurl the thief halfway down the bar where he tripped, fell over. With a savage look on his plump face the thief jumped up after pulling an automatic out of his hip holster. He was aiming the weapon when Max, who had lifted his hands, called out in French.
    ` Behind you! '
    The fat man glanced back as Max's right hand slipped a knife out of his pocket. The long blade whipped through the air, penetrated the fat man's throat. He fell forward on the handle and the knife was driven through to the back of his fleshy neck. He lay very still.
    Max turned, picked up his glass again, used a handkerchief to wipe off his fingerprints. Which was when four sinister apache types appeared all round him. Max was considering how to deal with them when the one in front of him lifted the palms of both hands in a peace gesture.
    `The chief was impressed with you. He wishes to talk with you. In that alcove over there...'

    Which was how Max came to meet and eventually become second-in-command to the man now stepping carefully ashore from the dinghy held fast to the landing stage by its crew.
    Calouste Doubenkian walked slowly towards Max. It was impossible to tell what he looked like as he cat- footed onto firm ground. He was short, but he wore a long black astrakhan overcoat which ended below his knees, a Russian-style fur hat which concealed his high forehead, and large dark glasses which concealed his eyes. Long fur gloves masked the shape of his hands. His soft-soled shoes made no sound as he approached Max. His voice was a quiet purr and he spoke in English very softly, which Max always found disturbing.
    `Is it safe?' he enquired.
    `It was when I last checked …'
    `Then perhaps you had better check again?'
    `Please wait here, Mr Doubenkian,' Max said nervously.
    `Have I not told you before never to speak my name?'
    `Sorry, sir. Very sorry.'
    `I will come with you while you check.'
    `If you would please follow my exact footsteps. There is deep marsh just beyond the stepping stones.' `Useful for hiding dead bodies, my