Lana had soft, loving eyes, and full sensual mouth; Carla had bright, intense eyes and a mischievous mouth.

The Duke offered Philippe a chair, but he declined, the matter was urgent and he was in no mood for pleasantries. As the Duke leaned back in his chair, Philippe leaned forward, palms pressed firmly on the desktop.

“What, may I ask, has happened to you?” Asked the Duke, referring to the large swath of bandages, covering the left side of Philippe’s face.

“I was involved in a car crash caused by a bitch that not only ripped off €2,000,000 of Marco’s product and money but also stole Project Oracle.”

The Duke’s face tensed and his eyes bored into Philippe’s eyes searching for more of the story. Philippe withered under the scrutiny, feeling foolish at having to acknowledge the loss at the hands of a woman.

Straightening up, he looked away to one side seeking composure. Philippe looked briefly at Carla’s portrait. It was not as he remembered Lana. He looked to the other portrait. Yes, there she was. He paused a moment longer than he should have, remembering the secret passion they had often shared, then he looked back at Carla and stiffened. Take away the ringlets; remove the glamour, it’s her! The bitch is even grinning at me.

Philippe’s face was red with anger now, the Duke read the whole scene in his face. Twenty-eight years ago, Philippe practically lived in the Dukes home. Any chance he could, he stayed. The Duke was in his prime then, always away on business, seeing his young wife only fleetingly. Then Lana suddenly went away to England for a year without giving any reason, and would not return in spite of the Duke’s pleas. Eventually she did come back, and their relationship took some time to adjust.

Seven years ago, she went away again for nearly six months, again giving no reason. The night she did return, driving a hired car from the airport, she died at Angel Pass. Apparently, she stopped at a roadside cafe to talk with someone, and then drove to her death over the pass, when her brakes failed. He never did find out to whom she talked, but he did discover she had a child; the first time she left him.

The Duke had not considered the possibility before, but now the motive and opportunity fitted, just as the cold and barbaric murder fitted Philippe.

The Duke pressed a button on his desk and a small automatic pistol, shot out into his hand.

Philippe saw the look on the Duke’s face, he knew Philippe had murdered Lana and now the Duke had a gun.

Like lightning, Philippe leaned over the desk and snatched the gun away from him.

“That seals your fate,” growled the Duke, but Philippe fired at the old man’s chest, the impact sending the Duke rolling back across the marble floor, in his chair.

Max and Carla had just reached the office door when they heard the shot from within. Max opened the door and ran in with Carla behind him. Philippe calmly swung the gun around to shoot Max in the head, but caught sight of Carla behind his shoulder. As she ran in, Carla was looking at the Duke collapsed in the chair, then looked past Max, at the attacker.

“Philippe!” She gasped, recognising him instantly, even with the bandages. Philippe re-aimed at Carla’s face, behind Max’s shoulder.

Seeing the gun pointing at her, she ducked behind Max. Tracking her move with the gun and pulling the trigger at the same time, the gun fired hitting Max in the face. He screamed a sharp cry of agony as he spun round, Carla crashed into him, and they fell to the floor. Max fell back, fracturing his skull on the unyielding floor, with Carla partly under him.

Doors were now opening into the room as staff came to investigate the shots. Philippe could not afford the luxury of hanging around, he had to get away. He headed for the door by which he had entered, pressed the release button and ran out, down to the garage. A security man was running up the stairs and challenged Philippe, who promptly shot him through the right eye. This gun fires down and to the left, noted Philippe, who had aimed centre forehead.

The garage doors were starting to close, Philippe aimed at the electrical trunking near the motor and fired several times, shorting out the power cables in a shower of sparks. The motor stopped closing the door.

Running to his car, he shouted to the chauffeur to get going, and fell into the back of the saloon. With squealing tyres, the sleek car shot forward and out of the garage.

As they drove down the road from the plateau, they could see cars coming up. They were in convoy, approaching the last bend.

The driver saw a way through by using the emergency escape road; it cut across the loop, bypassing the approaching cars.