"So the investments and the profits are probably illegal money from the syndicate," Pete said.

"Or from the Soviets, a.s.suming I'm right."

Houston scanned the list of businesses again . . . and suddenly among the names he recognized one. So familiar, so astonishing he blanched.

"Pete, what's wrong?"

Alarmed, he turned to Simone. He studied each portion of her face, her exquisite hair, her perfectly proportioned chin and nose and cheeks. At last he settled on her searching eyes.

He couldn't bring himself to tell her. What if his suspicions weren't correct?

He couldn't hurt her. Not till he was sure.

"It's just my ribs," he answered, fighting to sound natural. "They hurt. I tried to do too much."

"No wonder," Bellay told him, glancing at his watch. "It's after six. We all need rest. Would you accept my company at dinner?"

"No offense," Pete said, "but I need sleep instead of food.

Another time?"

"Of course. Besides, I have some private matters to attend to.

And, as well, we have a problem."

Houston frowned.

"You're still in danger. While you're learning, someone is still hunting you.

The situation hasn't changed. We have to find a place for you to spend the night. And I agree with you. A hotel isn't safe "

"Then where?"

Chapter 31.

A hunting lodge. At least it seemed to be. It sat atop a treeless hill, slopes clear of brush, with woods on its perimeter. A chain-link fence circled it, the only indication that it was something more than a lodge. The low, wide building seemed innocuous. Its walls were formed of logs, its roof cedar shingles. It had a dingy porch, a woodshed, and a listing single-car garage.

To get there, Houston and Simone had left the Renault at the Roncevaux police station's underground garage. They'd made their exit in a police van, its driver turning down streets at random, wanting to lose a tail or, if that didn't work, at least to spot one. Houston and Simone were transferred to an unmarked car and driven out of town. Simone kept glancing toward him anxiously, as if desperate to ask a question. But she stayed in control. She clutched his hand. He felt her tension as he remembered what he'd seen in the Verlaine folder.

To distract himself he glanced out at the darkness, at the silhouettes of trees along this gently rising country road. The driver pressed a b.u.t.ton on the dashboard. Houston almost asked him why, but then they angled off the road, climbing higher, this time on a b.u.mpy rutted lane with bushes on each side so close they sc.r.a.ped along the car.

Then, past the dense gloom of the hulking trees, he saw the clearing on the hill. And at the top, shrouded by a haze of eerie moonlight, Houston saw the stark black outline of the hunting lodge. He shivered.

Once again the driver pressed a b.u.t.ton on the dashboard. This time Houston felt no need to ask him why. The reason was self-evident. A metal gate swung open.

They drove through the gap in the fence toward the building. Houston glanced back. The gate was swinging shut.

They stopped. The driver left the engine running but made no move to get out.

Pete leaned ahead. "We're waiting. Someone's coming for us?"

The driver turned, his face quizzical. Houston realized he spoke no English.

But Simone asked. She translated what the driver answered.

"We're expected. He's supposed to drive back for another job. He thought we were aware of this procedure."

"He's just going to leave us here?" Pete tensed with apprehension. "But the place is dark. We don't know where we are."

The driver spoke. Simone told Houston, "He wants us to get out. He's already late."

"The h.e.l.l we will."

"He says that we'll be safe."

A sudden shadow loomed beside the car. Reflexively, Houston jerked backward, shielding Simone. His heart raced. Frantically he lunged to push the lock.

Too late. The door moved just before the lock clicked down. A man leaned in from the darkness. He was dressed in black from head to foot. He had a short black beard, a black beret, a thick black shoulder holster holding a ma.s.sive black-gripped handgun. He was close to fifty, stern-eyed, and he squinted at Simone and Houston.

"Please," he said, his English heavily inflected. "It is safer if you come inside."

"You're from Bellay?" Houston said.

"We work together. Our employer is the same."

"This place "

"Is your protection. Hurry, please. I can't defend you out here."

Houston looked for rea.s.surance from Simone. She nodded. They stepped from the car.

At once the stranger shut the door. He tapped his knuckles on the roof. The driver steered away. As Houston walked behind the man, he heard the gate swing smoothly open, and he watched the headlights disappear. The engine's drone became inaudible. The gate closed with a whisper.

Then, except for footsteps on the dew-wet gra.s.s, except for the sound of flapping wings a bat perhaps the night was silent. Houston, conscious of Simone beside him, watched the broad muscled back he followed. The stranger carried his suitcase and Simone's.

"No one bothered to explain," Pete said. "What kind of place "

"A refuge. Or a safe house for a meeting. Or a rest home. It has many uses.

Sometimes for debriefing or interrogation. I am called Henri. No last name, if you please. I am your servant."

"And our bodyguard?"

They reached the steps up to the creaky porch.

"The word is too suggestive. In the old days I would be described as a retainer.

My main purpose is your comfort and your security."

He opened the parched unpainted door. In semidarkness Houston saw another door, a solid metal one beside which Henri pushed some numbers on a console. Something whirred. The heavy door inched open.

"A precaution." Graciously Henri motioned them inside.

They entered blackness. Houston heard Henri touch something on the wall. When the door snicked shut, the lights came on. "They're automatic," Henri said.

"They shut off when the door is open."

Houston blinked. The room was large, with wooden beams across the ceiling, rich dark panels on the walls, and thick deep rustic throw rugs on the floor. There was even a bearskin on the wall and an eight-point rack of antlers hung above the slate-framed fireplace.

But Houston's main astonishment was caused by the wide array of monitors radios and multidialed devices situated all along the right end of the room. They glowed and glinted. Needles wavered.

"All these gadgets," Houston said.

"They're sentries. Once the metal door is closed, this place is sealed. You'll notice there are no windows."

Houston glanced around the room. The walls were solid, with no openings.

Simone was puzzled. "Outside I saw windows, though, and they were dark. The place seemed vacant."

"That's how it's supposed to look. It's part of the illusion," Henri answered pleasantly. "The windows have their shades pulled down and then these walls behind them. The effect is that the occupants appear to want their privacy in daytime and to be away at night. No shadows on the blinds. No silhouettes for snipers. Safe, anonymous, and practical. This lodge is like a bunker. Metal shields behind the panels. Ample food and water."

"You designed it?"

"You're perceptive. It's my hobby. I'm fortunate because it's also my business.

These devices put us into contact with our central bureau and its satellites.

But more important, they guard the grounds. The fence, of course, is monitored.

If anyone tries to cut it or climb over it, a signal is received here. And of course there are instruments surveying the woods as well. You may have noticed that the driver pressed a b.u.t.ton on his dashboard as he left the main road coming toward the gate."

Pete nodded.

"That was to warn me he was coming. Otherwise the signals on these monitors would have alerted me. After sending an alarm, I would have braced myself for an attack."

Pete swallowed. "I could use a drink."

"Jack Daniel's, if I'm not mistaken. And the lady "

"Dry martini."

"Oh? That isn't on your record." Henri seemed puzzled. "In that cabinet. I can't risk the side effects, but I take pleasure if my guests indulge."

Pete made the drinks. He gestured toward the many bottles on the bar. "Every one is sealed."

"My guests are careful."

"How is that?"

"They won't drink from an open bottle."

Houston gagged. The bourbon soured in his stomach. "It's not hard to drop the poison in and then put on a seal."

"There comes a time when they must trust."

As we are trusting, Houston thought.

"I have to talk to you," Simone said.

He had known that this was coming, though he'd hoped he could avoid it. All along, her eyes had followed him.

"Your room's through there," Henri said, pointing. "There's a bathroom with a shower. I'll serve dinner in an hour."

She went in before he'd finished talking. Houston grabbed their bags. The room was s.p.a.cious, beamed, and paneled, with slick hardwood floors, a king-sized bed.

She shut the door as soon as he came in. "The bathroom," she said.

"What?"

"You heard me." She walked swiftly toward another door and yanked it open. He saw the bright white tile. She stalked in. He set the bags down.

Frowning, he went after her. "What is it?"

But she didn't answer. She turned on the sink taps, then the shower faucets. In the noise, she faced him. "You're holding something back again."

"You think there's a microphone?"

"Of course I think so. I'd be stupid not to know this room was bugged. The truth! Quit hiding things from me."

The taps kept pouring water. "Tell me," she said.

He spoke reluctantly. "Bellay brought in the Verlaine folder. We were reading through the doc.u.ments."

She nodded.

"I had the list of Verlaine's holdings, all the companies it owned. Simone, I didn't want to hurt you. That's the only reason I held back. I had to think about the implications. Halfway down the second sheet I saw the name of your father's hotel. Verlaine owns it."

She looked as if she'd been slapped. "My father works for Verlaine Enterprises?"

"Beneath the hotel's name I saw the right address. And then I saw your father's name."

"There's some mistake!"