Durell had trusted the redhaired girl. He had had no choice. From the moment of the murder high in the Swiss Alps to this dirty, freezing little cabin on the banks of the polluted Danube, she'd gone along with him. Now, their filthy wet clothing cast aside, they huddled in blankets, warmed by the brandy they'd found. She moved against him with a ferocious demand, her hands urging him on. But something was wrong. His mind was fuzzy, and he felt a wave of dizziness. Alarmed, he tried to shake himself awake. But it was too late....

1966.