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37 T errorism Black wavelets lap against pilings. Bone dust settles on the pier. The ferryman looks up from his tiller at a man in an Armani suit Who steps out of the shadows, swinging his briefcase, staggering a little before stopping at the edge of the jetty, knowing—despite the absence Of his head (and the eyes in that head) and despite the hole in his chest from which an ichor, the ghost of blood, fountains in the wake of the bomb-blast— That the wine-dark water is perilous, being neither wine nor water. ...


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