Page 48 of The Atlas Maneuver

The man leaped and struck at her exposed neck with the edge of his hand.

Which hurt.

She buckled but did not go down.

Instead, she lunged, grabbing hold of an arm, throwing her weight forward, then bringing the arm up and into her right armpit. With her left elbow she struck backward, the point burying deep in his ribs. She twisted again and, locking onto the man’s wrists, used her leverage to spin and press backward against his arm.

Which broke with a snap.

The man cried out and tried to break free, but the pain and confusion caused him to flail and miss.

She released her grip and shoved him over the side.

The boat’s motor roared to life.

Citrone stood at the wheel, working the throttle.

Koger was watching from his own boat and tossed a thumbs-up.

She returned the gesture.

“I know the scoundrel on my boat over there,” Citrone said. “But who might you be?”

“Cassiopeia Vitt.”

“You seem to be quite brave and nimble.”

She smiled. “I try.”

They powered ahead for a short way, then Citrone shifted to neutral and shut the engine off, fifty meters from the two swimming men. Koger’s boat motored around, crossed in front of their bow, then eased close, touching, and she helped Citrone to makehis way to it. She then hopped over, taking the keys in the ignition, leaving the motor off. With a little luck the two men in the water could make their way to it but would have nowhere to go.

Cassiopeia stood with a towel wrapped around her wet clothes, back inside Citrone’s messy bedchamber. The big man appeared unfazed by the ordeal. She estimated him to be in his sixties, with a large, pockmarked nose, skin pale as ivory, a thatch of thin hair atop a partially bald head, and the watery eyes of someone who liked alcohol. A smile seemed to always fill his lips, which cast an odd warm glow of pleasure she thought not real. His fingernails were immaculately manicured. Still, the most poignant first impression came from his voice—smooth and mellow, the English spoken with a clipped, upper-class accent, like some audiobook narrator.

“Cassiopeia,” Koger said. “Meet Robert Kenneth Citrone, or as he likes to be called, Sir Rob, formerly of the Central Intelligence Agency, assigned to the Bank of St. George, now retired. As you already know, this is his home.”

Citrone offered her a slight bow of welcome.

“Are you an actual knight?” she asked.

“Of the Order of the Gold Lion,” Citrone said, adding another bow. “At your service.”

“Don’t get him started,” Koger said. “The royal house of Luxembourg granted it to him a long time ago. For what? I don’t want to know.”

“I’m familiar with the order,” she said. “That honor is meant only for royal families. I’ve never heard of it being bestowed on an outsider.”

“It was given to me in secret. For meritorious service to the royal family,” Citrone said.

“Yet he tells everyone,” Koger added.

Citrone waved the criticism off. “He’s just jealous.”

“Yeah,” Koger said. “Let’s go with that.”

The boat ride to the house had been uneventful and Citrone hadsaid little. Koger had apparently decided not to press until they were back inside and alone.

She stepped over to an open panel in the wall that Citrone had revealed. When closed, it appeared to be a set of inlaid shelves. Citrone had accessed it when they arrived. On the other side was a small, windowless room that housed six LED screens. One showed the front of the house where their car awaited. Others showed various rooms and hallways. Another replayed a loop from earlier with the two men entering the house.

“The PSIA paid me a visit,” Citrone said. “Unannounced.”

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