Napa, California, September

He lay camouflaged and motionless on the ground. His face touched the warm, rich soil. He savored the scent of the succulent grapes above, which were hanging heavily on the symmetrical rows of vines. The sun had just disappeared over the mountains to his left. The man was alone. However, he knew others were nearby. At least two of them; that was standard procedure. He did not know their names or their faces. He wore a dark-green jump suit, the kind paratroopers wore. Underneath he wore an Armani tuxedo and black Gucci shoes. My wedding uniform, he thought with a smile.

It was twilight now. He could hear the festive crowd only two hundred yards ahead. He lifted his head. He had an unobstructed view of the stage where the father would give away the bride. He noticed the many guests beginning to take their seats. With hands covered in latex surgeon's gloves, he removed the small patch of grass that covered the hole he had dug earlier. He pulled out the black, airtight plastic case and removed the components to the Savage-Anschutz .223 sniper rifle. Practiced hands assembled it.

He removed the Leupold optical infrared sight and fitted it. He stroked the cool metal of the barrel. Always at this time memories of his father came back to him, when he had shown him how to fire a hunting rifle. The same rules applied in this dark trade: one shot, one to kill. He opened the chamber and loaded one bullet. He placed the Savage-Anschutz next to him.

There was almost complete darkness now, and he could feel his heart pounding against the soft ground. Adrenaline was kicking in. He lived for these moments. Suddenly the music began: Wagner's wedding march. He nestled both elbows on the grass between the vines and brought the sniper stock to his cheek. He monitored his breathing. He waited.

Then he saw the couple, at first just their heads because the crowd hid the rest. He watched them, arm-in-arm, approaching the well-lit stage. He would only have a second. Steady fingertips adjusted the scope for windage and elevation. His target moved grotesquely in the infrared glow.

The father of the bride did the expected and stopped at the 'center of the elevated stage, which was lavishly decorated with red roses. And when he did, three shots almost simultaneously thundered through the calm valley, blowing the head from the Arab's torso, whirling it through the still night air and landing it four feet in front of the stunned bridesmaid. Blood, bone, skin and brain fragments spattered the expensive designer gown of the dead man's daughter. The torso was lying prone in a pool of blood amidst the many rose petals spread over the stage. But the body did not lie still. It twitched. It lasted a second, maybe two.

The three assassins had not used silencers. On the contrary, they wanted noise. They wanted pandemonium, confusion, hysteria, and chaos to make their escape easy. But at first there was only an echoing silence. The music had stopped. The crowd was stunned. The silence lasted for a breath. Then what the assassins had expected set in. All hell broke loose. Screaming, crying, calls for help, and blind running to get away. Women kicked off their shoes to run faster. Men grasped their children. All seemed to be heading to their cars in the parking lot. Then one of the killers pulled the main switch of the electric box. The vineyard was engulfed in darkness.

The camouflaged figure slowly got to his knees, placed the gun and scope into the plastic case and into the hole. As he stood, he removed his jump suit. He placed it in the hole. Finally he removed the powdered surgeon gloves m1d tossed them in with the weapon. Then he replaced the square of grass. He gently stepped on the patch to pad it down. He did not have to mark the spot. He would remember, and when the time was right he would return to retrieve the gear.

Dressed in his black tuxedo, he strolled toward the wedding grounds through the rows of vines. He stopped for a second, picked a grape, and tasted it. Yes, he thought, California would have another good year of Cabernets. When he reached the scene of chaos and confusion, he joined the rest of the crowd and ran to the parking lot to retrieve the car that had been left there for him.

He drove directly to the San Francisco airport. Before he reached the Golden Gate Bridge, he pulled off the highway and into a gas station to use the men's room. Here the young, athletic man removed his tuxedo and put on his favorite attire: loose khaki pants, brown sandals and a blue, short-sleeved Bahamian shirt. He could not wait to get back home to Miami Beach, to his comfortable apartment on South Beach.

* * *

Innsbruck, Austria, September 2003

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his office on the fifth floor of the two- hundred-year-old fieldstone building. Large arched windows and portals were buttressed by statues of Austrian royalty. He often sought solitude and privacy in his office. Today was no exception.

Bright sunshine filled the room and illuminated the portrait that prominently adorned the wall. It was a seventeenth-century painting of the man he had been named after, Emperor Maximillian I. Max looked pensively out at the street scene below. In the distance the rugged Alps were blending with the sky. A smile drifted across his lips.

He walked across the worn, antique red carpet which covered the old wooden floor. When he reached his desk, he looked once-more at the portrait on the wall. Some of the bright hues of oil had faded since the seventeenth century. He noticed the firmness of his ancestor's mouth, the eyes piercing as a hawk's. That chin could lead crusades.

Today the portrait was different; it appeared to come to life. The emperor seemed proud, more intense, as if he was assured that destiny was yet to come. Then their eyes met. Max did not look away. He was communicating with his forefather, and Max felt a chill. He felt the sunlit nod of approval. Max was never superstitious, nor did he believe in seances, so this was a strange exchange. He sat in the chair and leaned back. He touched the large ring on his index finger. It was the ring all his forefathers had worn. It was the ring of the Habsburg dynasty. It bore his family's crest.

Max placed his hands behind his neck and stretched. Then he closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. When it was time, he picked up the telephone and made the call. The familiar voice answered.

"William" he said, "old friend, how are you? I believe that I may have good news for you. I think I have found him, finally found the man we have been looking for."

He braced for the staccato of questions he knew would come. They spun down the wires from Berlin.

"You have? I cannot believe it. Are you certain? Who is he, where is he? You need to tell me all about him. We need to be sure. We cannot make a mistake."

"William, I agree, but all in due time. You know I can't talk about him to you now, over the telephone. Next week, on Wednesday, I will be in Berlin. We will have dinner then. How about eight o'clock at your favorite restaurant?"

"Yes, of course. Max, you are right as always. I will see you then. Auf Wiedersehen."

The call ended. Maximillian von Habsburg put down the telephone receiver and looked out of his office window in the Altstadt of Innsbruck. He looked at the mountains in the distance. Now he again had a smile on his face. From this city, five hundred years...