I'd barely had time to climb off the jet from the States when they slaughtered old Mozzoni in broad daylight on one of the busiest streets in Rome.

They knew I'd seen the whole thing, knew I could identify the murder car. But that didn't stop the swift execution of their fantastic plans: Mozzoni was only the first victim in a long line of calculated killings, and the subsequent victims kept keeling over as fast as they could be counted.

And, inevitably, my name appeared at the top of the list. It was my turn. And there was nowhere I could look for help - because the police of three countries were looking for me, too.