"The killer surveyed his work. Satisfied, he knelt down by a large, stagnant pool of blood and moved his index finger through it. He then pulled out a square of dark cloth from his left sleeve and spread it over his handiwork. He rose to his feet and rushed out of the room, unbuttoning the white caftan as he ran down the dim hallway; the robe was open by the time he reached the door to the cabaret." Chapter 1, pg. 8.

"'Was there any pattern to his victims?' "'None. They were random, across the board. Two bankers here, three attachys there - meaning CIA; a minister of state from Delhi, an industrialist from Singapore, and numerous - far too numerous - politicians, generally decent men. their cars were bombed in the streets, their flats blown up. Then there were unfaithful husbands and wives and lovers of various persuasions...