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As he undid her dress, his hands were warm against her skin. He cupped her breasts and caressed her with such tenderness that she trembled. She unbuttoned his shirt and kissed his chest, tasting salt on his smooth golden skin.

When he laid her on the bed a rush of passion surged through her, so overwhelming it almost frightened her. She was so ready that when he entered her she felt no discomfort, only a searing, instant charge that pulsed through her.

As they moved together she tried to understand what was happening to her, but all she knew with any certainty was that at that moment she loved Max Kappel more than she had loved anyone. When she climaxed she cried out, 'Max! I love you, Max! I love you.'

And he put his mouth to her ear and whispered, 'I love you too.'

MAX HAD ENJOYED SEX MANY TIMES IN HIS LIFE BUT HE HAD NEVER made love before. Now, he felt a bliss even greater than he experienced when he was diving. It seemed that, for a few fleeting seconds, the universe had revealed a glimpse of what made life worth living.

However, as soon as he had whispered those three words, which he hadn't uttered since his mother died, the curtain closed and he regretted what he had said. He was no longer lost in the moment and it was as though a third eye had opened, allowing him to step out of himself and see his emotional euphoria for what it was. Their love wasn't real. Tomorrow morning it would have gone from their systems and they would feel nothing for each other. As she stroked his face, he told himself that all love was temporary and he should move on and forget her. There was, however, a problem. A problem Max had never encountered before.

He felt guilty. He cared for her.

Rationally he knew that this was a reaction to the drug, but that didn't change the way he felt. He had been unprepared for its impact on him. Over the years he had exerted ruthless control over his mind and body, and prided himself on his immunity to debilitating emotions. But now he was flooded with them. For the last two days he had been in a state of turmoil, riding a roller-coaster of euphoria and anxiety. A short while ago he had been on the verge of sharing the details of his mother's death with Isabella, a stranger, and attempting to explain how he felt about it. Why would any sane man choose to open that dark place and stir up memories he couldn't begin to resolve or act on? He wasn't even sure what, if anything, he felt about it.

The most difficult aspect of the nature-identical drug was that it had shifted his priorities. He had always put his interests and the Kappels' first. The drug, however, had made Isabella the most important person in his world, far more important than his family or himself. He had to remind himself constantly that the drug was unbalancing him, and that once it left his system he would return to normal. Still, it took all his will-power not to tell Isabella everything and beg her forgiveness for having deceived her. He had to be ruthless. There was no other way.

'It's all happening so fast,' she said, laying her head on his chest.

He said nothing, just stared into the dark, willing the morning to come so that everything would return to how it was.

'It's okay,' she said sleepily, her breathing regular now. There's no rush. We've got all the time in the world.'

THE NEXT MORNING: 31 AUGUST

THEFORESTCLEARING WAS HIGH IN THE GLARNER ALPS, SOUTH-west of Zurich. Away from hiker trails and main roads, it was ideal for a discreet rendezvous. Drumming his fingers on the black folder, Helmut glanced at his watch and looked down on the distant Zurichsee shimmering in the early-morning sun. Marco Trapani should be here soon and he wanted the distraction over with. He rubbed his hands together. It was the last day of August but the air was cool beneath the alpine firs.

As he opened the folder and flicked through Stein's notes and video stills, he tried to remember when he had last felt so exhilarated. Assuming that Max confirmed what Helmut had seen on Stein's video footage, Bacci's drug should enable him to stamp his name indelibly on the history of the Kappel dynasty. The opportunities were limitless.

He heard a car's engine on the isolated road that snaked up the forested mountain and walked to the edge of the clearing. A black Mercedes limousine drove off the Tarmac and parked among the trees, concealed from passing traffic. A short, slight man with smooth olive skin and thinning black hair got out of the rear door. He wore an immaculate Italian suit with a red silk handkerchief and matching tie. His eyes were as black as his gleaming patent-leather shoes. Two large men in tight suits flanked him.

Helmut opened his arms and smiled. 'Marco, good to see you.'

Marco Trapani returned the smile and embraced him. 'Thank you for agreeing to meet. But did it have to be so early and so private?'

'This is a sensitive matter.' Helmut glanced meaningfully at Trapani's two bodyguards and the driver. 'For your ears only.'

The Mafia don turned to the men. 'Wait by the car.' He turned back to Helmut. 'Usually I bring only one guy with me, but I've heard that Chabrol's people want blood. They don't care that he died of natural causes. They think that because I benefited from his death I must be responsible. You know the Corsicans.' He made a throat-slitting motion with his hand. 'First they give you the Corsican smile, and then, as you bleed to death, they ask if you're innocent.'

Helmut laughed. 'You're safe here. Let's take a walk in the forest.' When they were out of earshot of the guards he said, 'So, how much did Professor Bacci tell you about his drug?'

'Not a lot.' Trapani's eyes narrowed. 'You told him not to tell me anything.'

'I advised him not to tell anyone anything until we'd checked it out.'

'I'm not anyone. I'm his cousin, and I recommended him to you. He owes me. You owe me. After I asked how your meeting went he wouldn't say much, but when I pressed him he let slip that he'd created a drug that can make people fall in love.' Trapani looked hard at him. 'That sounds more valuable than the nature-identical heroin my people are developing. I could use it to make die transition from the drug trade to the legit drug industry. If my cousin's discovery is genuine.'

'It's genuine,' Helmut said, without hesitation. He told Trapani about Bacci's presentation and the trial he had arranged in Antibes. Then he tapped the folder. 'I had Max followed.'

There was admiration in Trapani's dark eyes. 'You had your own son followed?'

'I didn't know what the drug would make him do or say.' He opened the folder and showed the contents to Trapani. A video still showed Max and Isabella standing on a beach, eyes closed, caressing each other's faces. Isabella was tall and athletic, but she looked tiny beside Max in his black wetsuit. Another showed them dressed in jeans and T-shirts kissing passionately on the street. In another they were in a club, Max sitting in the corner, watching Isabella dancing in a group. The anxious expression on his face was so alien to Helmut he found it hard to recognize his son.

'If you knew my son as I do you'd understand that these pictures speak volumes. Max never shows emotion -- let alone in public -- and he'd never even met the girl before.' He pointed to Stein's neat diary notes, which detailed Max's every moment from when he had arrived in Antibes. 'They were virtually inseparable.'

'What does Max say about this?' said Trapani.

Helmut remembered the curt message his son had left a few hours ago: 'It works. Have returned to my house in St Laurent-du-Var to get my head straight. Contact you in a few days.' He chuckled. 'He's convinced. So am I.'

Trapani nodded slowly. 'How do you plan to exploit the drug?'

'Your cousin wants to get it approved for use as a mainstream drug, like an emotional Viagra. He sees it as a cure for divorce, broken homes and unhappiness. He wants to spread love, banish loneliness, and be recognized for it.'

Trapani smiled incredulously. 'And you? What do Kappel Privat-bank want to do with it?'

Helmut lit a cigarette and took a long drag. He kept his face impassive. We always follow our clients' wishes.'

Trapani stepped close to him and his mask of suave charm dissolved. 'Cut the crap, Helmut. My cousin might be a genius but he's also a fool. I'm not. I don't know what you're planning to do with his drug but I want a share of the profits. Don't forget, you're just a banker, Helmut. A little man who looks after big men's money. You're a servant to your clients' needs.' Trapahi jabbed him in the chest with a forefinger. 'And the Trapanis are among your oldest, most important clients. You serve me.'

As he returned the Sicilian's black stare, Helmut remained silent, his cold blue eyes absorbing the heat of Trapani's anger.

Trapani lowered his gaze first. 'So,' he said, 'what's my share?'

Helmut didn't blink.

'I demand forty per cent,' Trapani said.

Silence.

Trapani frowned and waited, raking his fingers through his hair. 'I'll accept a third. But that's final. Any less and I'll advise my cousin to pull out. I'll fund this project myself. You'll get nothing. I'll close my account and take my business elsewhere.'

Helmut's smile did not reach his eyes.

'So what do you say, Helmut? Do we have a deal?'

Slowly Helmut shook his head.

Trapani's jaw muscles clenched. 'What's your offer, then? What do I get from this?'

'Nothing.' Helmut paused. 'Not even your life.'

Trapani stepped back. "What the fuck are you talking about? He glanced over his shoulder and called to his bodyguards. When there was no reply he hurried back to the clearing. The car doors were open and both bodyguards lay sprawled on the blood-soaked earth, heads pushed back, eyes staring. Their throats had been slit from ear to ear. The driver sat in his seat, hands still on the wheel. He had been virtually decapitated. The windscreen was smeared with a translucent red glaze. Trapani stood rooted to the ground as though unable to process what he was seeing.

Then Stein appeared from behind the trees, flanked by two of his silver-haired henchmen. Each looked as if he'd stepped out of a slaughterhouse. Stein's eyepatch, greying hair and business suit were slick with blood. In his right hand he held a Kukri: the razor-sharp curve of its gleaming steel was dull with blood. Stein smiled at Helmut: the satisfied smile of a job well done. Helmut nodded in acknowledgement. The bodies wouldn't be found for days. The Corsicans would deny the killings, but the corpses bore their signature.

Stein stepped towards Trapani but Helmut stopped him. 'Stein, you and your men have excelled yourselves. Leave Marco to me.'

As Helmut pulled the blade from the sheath on his ankle, Trapani's face grew deathly pale. He reached frantically for his gun but he was too ,slow. Helmut stepped forward and sliced the razor-sharp blade across his jugular. Trapani fell to his knees, clutching at his throat, trying to stem the blood spurting from the artery. A gurgling sound issued from his wound as if he was trying to speak -- or scream.

Given the bank's precarious finances, Helmut was taking a gamble in eradicating a major client, but he calculated that control of the NiL drug would more than compensate for any loss of revenue caused by Trapani's departure. If he was to move the business to a new level he had to take risks, as Dieter Kappel had done before him.

He knelt beside Trapani, oblivious of the blood, forcing the Sicilian to look into his eyes and register his face as the last he would see before oblivion claimed him. We weren't just bankers in the past, Marco,' he whispered, prodding the man's chest until Trapani toppled on to his back, twitching in his final death throes. Helmut tapped the black folder under his arm. 'And we won't just be bankers in the future.'

THE SAME MORNING

THERE WAS A KNOCK AT THE DOOR OF ISABELLA'S HOTEL BEDROOM.

'You awake in there?'

Isabella opened her eyes. There was a brief pause, then she heard Phoebe's voice again. 'Wakey, wakey. I know it's early, you two, but the yacht leaves at eight, and if you're late we'll sail to Monaco without you.'

Isabella got out of the bed, put on a robe and opened the door.

Phoebe looked at the crumpled bed. 'Where's Max? I thought--'

'He's gone.'

'Where?'

'Said he had to get back to Zurich. Something urgent at work, apparently.'

When?'

'About five this morning.'

Phoebe frowned. 'Are you seeing him again?'

'Don't know. Probably not.'

Phoebe sat beside her on the bed. What did the bastard do?'

'Nothing.'

'I don't understand. You both looked so smitten. Hit-by-a-thunderbolt stuff. What happened?'

'I honestly don't know. It just changed.'

Phoebe frowned again and put her arm around her friend. 'You okay, Izzy? How do you feel?'

'I'm not sure.' And she wasn't. All she knew was that something strange and outside her control had happened, a subtle but irrevocable shift in the fabric of her life. For the last two days, right up to when she had fallen asleep last night, Max had become a part of her, like another limb. But this morning the intensity had evaporated. They had gone to bed as lovers and woken as strangers.

She had even pretended to be asleep when he had crept out of her room. He had left a brief note, explaining that he had to return to Zurich, but made no mention of meeting again. She felt so different this morning from how she had felt last night that she was unsure whether to be upset or relieved. Mostly she felt foolish: in the cold light of day, the whole episode smacked of one of those ghastly holiday flings people had when they were on the rebound. Along with her passion for Max, her holiday mood had gone. She felt a sudden urge to return to Milan and throw herself into her work.