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really don’t need to argue about this, Mr Mikato,” Julia Rothman said smoothly. “Max has been talking about retiring for a long time now and I think we should respect his wishes. It’s certainly a shame. But, as my late husband used to say, all good things come to an end.”
    Mrs Rothman’s multimillionaire husband had fallen to his death from a seventeenth-storey window. It had happened just two days after their marriage.
    “It’s very sad, Max,” she continued. “But I’m sure you’re doing the right thing. It’s time for you to go.”
    * * *
    She went with him down to the jetty. The motor launch had left but there was a gondola waiting to take him back down the canal. They walked slowly arm in arm.
    “I’ll miss you,” she said.
    “Thank you, Julia.” Max Grendel patted her arm. “I’ll miss you too.”
    “I don’t know how we’ll manage without you.”
    “Invisible Sword cannot fail. Not with you at the helm.”
    She stopped suddenly. “I almost forgot,” she exclaimed. “I have something for you.” She snapped her fingers and a servant ran forward carrying a large box wrapped in pink and blue paper, tied with a silver bow. “It’s a present for you,” she said.
    “A retirement present?”
    “Something to remember us by.”
    Max Grendel had stopped beside the gondola. It was bobbing up and down on the choppy surface. A gondolier dressed in a traditional striped jersey stood in the back, leaning on his oar. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “And good luck.”
    “Enjoy yourself, Max. Keep in touch.”
    She kissed him, her lips lightly touching his withered cheek. Then she helped him into the gondola. He sat down awkwardly, placing the brightly coloured box on his knees. At once the gondolier pulled away. Mrs Rothman raised a hand. The little boat cut swiftly through the grey water.
    Mrs Rothman turned and went back into the Widow’s Palace.
    Max Grendel watched her sadly. He knew that life wouldn’t be the same without Scorpia. For two decades he had devoted all his energies to the organization. It had kept him young, kept him alive. But now there were his grandchildren to consider. He thought of the twins, little Hans and Rudi. They were twelve years old. The same age as Scorpia’s targets in London. He couldn’t be part of it. He had made the right decision.
    He had almost forgotten the package resting on his knees. That was typical of Julia. Perhaps it was because she was the only woman on the executive board, but she had always been the one who was most emotional. He wondered what she had bought him. The parcel was heavy. On an impulse, he untied the ribbon, then ripped off the paper.
    It was an executive briefcase, obviously expensive. He could tell from the quality of the leather, the hand-stitching … and there was the label. It had been made by Gucci. His initials – MUG – had been engraved in gold just under the handle. With a smile he opened it.
    And screamed as the contents spilled over him.
    Scorpions. Dozens of them. They were at least ten centimetres long, dark brown with tiny pincers and fat, swollen bodies. As they poured into his lap and began to swarm up his shirt, he recognized what they were: hairy thick-tailed scorpions fromthe
Parabuthus
species, one of the most deadly in the world.
    Max Grendel fell backwards, shrieking, his eyes bulging, arms and legs flailing as the hideous creatures found the gaps in his clothes and crawled inside his shirt and down under the waistband of his trousers. The first one stung him on the side of his neck. Then he was being stung over and over again, jerking helplessly, the screams dying in his throat.
    His heart gave out long before the neurotoxins killed him. As the gondola floated gently on, being steered now towards the island cemetery of Venice, tourists might have noticed an old man lying still with his hands spread wide, gazing with sightless eyes at the bright Venetian sky.

BY INVITATION ONLY
    T hat night, the