Andrews' hand was just about to punch a number. "Why?"

"Before you start . . . Here, let me have this sheet of paper." Houston took a pencil from the desk and wrote on the paper. Then he folded it and set it on the desk.

"What was that about?" the superintendent said.

"I have to prove this to you."

Andrews didn't understand. His eyes were focused hard on Houston. Doubt burned far behind them. Then he punched a number on the phone. "This had better make some sense," he said. He spoke into the phone.

Houston marveled at his flawless French. "If the lines aren't all tied up,"

Andrews said in English, explaining to Houston. He tapped his fingers on the wall. He switched to French again. "Out? . . . Ah, merci." To Houston: "We're in luck."

Houston waited.

"Yes? Mr. Hutchinson?" Andrews said. "I know it's somewhat early to be calling, but. . . . Superintendent Andrews, sir. I'm at the military cemetery north of St. Laurent in France. . . . That's right. . . . No, sir, I don't have any news.

. . . I'm well aware, sir. I apologize for waking you. . . . Please, just a moment. There's a man who'd like to speak with you."

Despite the distance, Houston heard the growling from the receiver. With a wince, Andrews offered it to Houston. "Glad it's you who has to talk to him."

Pete held the phone. The voice had stopped. He heard the crackling of the transatlantic line. He heard a murky overlap of voices from a conversation on a different line. He spoke distinctly.

"Mr. Hutchinson, my name is Peter Houston. You don't know me, so don't try to think of where we've met."

"Christ, do you realize what time it is?" The voice was husky.

"Yes. Near five, I think, where you are."

"Quarter to! You woke my wife and kids! I don't mind if you've got news! The sergeant said there wasn't any! What the h.e.l.l? Do you guys get a kick from phoning people overseas and waking them? For G.o.d's sake, what's this all "

"I'm sorry we caused you any trouble. But I have to ask a question, Mr.

Hutchinson. The answer might mean nothing. But it might locate your father's grave. I had to get in touch with you at once."

"And who the h.e.l.l are you? You're with the army?"

"No. I can't explain right now. Please, let me ask the question."

"Anything to get some sleep! I work two jobs you know! I "

"Mr. Hutchinson, did your mother ever get a letter from a Frenchman? Back in nineteen forty-four. The Frenchman would have said that he was grateful to the men who died to liberate his homeland. In exchange, he would have promised to maintain your father's grave."

"That's your question? Who remembers that far back?"

Just me, Pete thought. I guess you really have to want a father. "Then you don't remember?"

"No, of course not! I was just a baby!"

Houston's throat-tight fierce excitement started weakening.

"Now, Christ, you woke my mother!" Hutchinson continued. "Here she comes! You've got the whole d.a.m.ned house up!"

"Mr. Hutchinson, please ask her." Houston's heart beat fast again.

"Ask what?"

"About the Frenchman."

"Oh, for ... Hang on! Just a minute!"

Houston heard the m.u.f.fled rattle of the phone as it was set on something hard.

He heard a young child crying and the garble of a far-off conversation.

Hutchinson spoke unexpectedly. "She got a letter. Does that satisfy you?"

"No, I need to know the Frenchman's name."

"Oh, for the love of "

"Please. She's there. It only takes a second. Ask her."

Once again the m.u.f.fled conversation.

Then the young child wasn't weeping any more. The garbled conversation stopped.

All Houston heard was that dim static from the transatlantic line.

"I think he walked away and left me," Houston said to Andrews and Simone. "He's getting even, running up the charges,"

Houston glanced down at his watch. A minute pa.s.sed. "He's playing games. I'll hang up and try again."

But as he reached to hang the phone up, Hutchinson came back.

"Pierre de St. Laurent. She kept the letters. Does that satisfy you?"

"Mr. Hutchinson, you can't imagine. Thank you." Houston almost laughed with joy.

"I'm going to put Superintendent Andrews back on. Tell him what you told me."

"This is crazy."

"Just a minute longer." Houston's hand shook with excitement; he gestured toward Andrews. "Take the phone."

Simone leaned forward, anxious.

"Can you guess?" he asked her.

But Andrews was already speaking. "Mr. Hutchinson? Yes, let me have that name please." Andrews frowned as though the name he heard was gibberish. "Yes, thank you," he said and glanced at Houston angrily. "I'm not sure if it's important.

If it helps, though, you can bet I'll soon get back to you."

Andrews hung up, staring at Houston. "Let's pretend that I'm not quick today," he said, "that I've been stupid since I crawled from bed. The way you got excited, evidently you discovered something. If you did, I missed it. That name is of absolutely no significance to me."

"What was it?"

"St. Laurent. Pierre de St. Laurent."

"All right." Houston's voice was tight, triumphant. "Open up that sheet of paper."

"I was wondering " Andrews stopped what he was saying and picked up the paper.

Houston heard Simone breathe out. Then he turned to watch Andrews' stunned, bewildered face peer up from what was on the page: pierre de st. laurent.

"But how did how could you have known?"

"I hope you've got time," Peter said.

"For what?"

"The d.a.m.nedest story you ever heard."

Chapter 21.

It took an hour. As the clerk brought coffee refills and the ashtray filled up with stubbed cigarettes; as Houston's voice grew weary and Simone supplied additional details, Houston watched the superintendent's eyes and took his cues from them. The eyes at first were disbelieving. Shortly they were curious. The intrigue they displayed changed quickly to astonishment, then shock, and finally a startled understanding of the implications.

"If you're right . . ." He looked as if his ordered world could not bear this insanity. "It can't be true. It isn't possible. Christ, how could such a thing have happened?"

"How and what?" Pete said. "We've got to check your records."

"What you're looking for won't be in them. It can't be. Not if this is true."

"You've got a teletype?"

Andrews nodded. "With the radio in the communications room."

"Well, what we're looking for must be in someone's records."

Houston's hands were on the desk. He leaned toward Andrews, who was blank-faced for a moment. Andrews pursed his lips, determined. He pushed back his chair and got up quickly. "Let's get to it."

They went from the office and walked along the counter, nearing no admittance, both in French and English, on a door down at the far end of the ma.s.sive room.

Andrews pushed through, let them enter. They were in a pure white hall with fluorescent lights in the ceiling. One door: washroom. Next door: maintenance equipment. Third door: communications. They entered.

Houston saw a radio, a teletype, and several bulky instruments he didn't recognize. A clerk sat at the radio.

"I'm almost finished."

"Why so much equipment at a cemetery?" Houston asked.

"All this stuff gets sent to us so we're prepared for World War Three. It makes no sense."

"For once you'll get to use it."

Despite himself, Andrews grinned. "I hope I still remember how." But Houston sensed the fear with which Andrews sat down to experiment.

Andrews tapped some letters, and the teletype responded, printing what appeared to be a code. "This teletype is linked with our main European office," Andrews explained. "The other operator just acknowledged he's receiving me."

Andrews tapped more letters. "I'm requesting clearance to the States."

The teletype printed, your request acknowledged. purpose. Pause. Then a question mark.

"I'd better make it good."

As Houston wondered nervously, Andrews tapped more letters: CEMETERY RECORDS INCOMPLETE. REQUIRE INFORMATION TO LOCATE GRAVE OF MISSING.

SOLDIER.

"That'll make them scratch their heads. If they don't understand it, then they'll pa.s.s the buck to someone else." A pause. The teletype clattered: request affirmed. state DESTINATION.

Andrews rubbed his chin. "A d.a.m.n good question."

"Start with World War Two a.s.signment records. Who was in what unit," Houston said.

Andrews nodded, sitting straighter, tapping on the keyboard.

The machine responded.

"We're through," Andrews said. "We're talking to the States."

Houston's breathing quickened.

"They'll reroute us back and forth across the country. Different offices. In time, we'll find those records."

It took half an hour. Houston felt a shock when the search concluded at an Army installation near the town where he taught in Indiana. "All my years there, and I had to come to France to learn the purpose of that base."

Andrews braced himself. "Here goes. Begin with basics."

Houston's throat felt bitter, swollen, as he saw the name Andrews started typing: stephen samuel houston. status. world war two. Andrews finished typing.

The answer came: searching records.