I'll agree to what the group decides. I won't pretend to like it, though."

"There's no need to be jealous."

"Hardly, Father. Embarra.s.sed for you. And disgusted. Since he's your mistake, you deal with him." Charles braced his shoulders. Scornfully he crossed the room and yanked the door open. He glanced dismissively at Houston and stepped out.

And almost b.u.mped against a guard who entered hurriedly.

"What is it?" St. Laurent said, frowning.

As the guard began to answer, he saw Houston, stopped, and nodded toward the hallway.

"Please, excuse me," St. Laurent told Houston as he left. "Yes, discuss this with your father." He attempted to sound casual. "The three of you."

"What?"

"You, your father . . . and a guard."

Chapter 48.

The wind was cold. Houston paced the courtyard with his father while a guard watched from a parapet. He had the sense of other eyes watching from hidden vantages, but Houston didn't care. He felt as if he were both that abandoned boy whose dream had finally come true and that betrayed adult whose nightmares had been realized.

He watched the sickle moon. He thought about Simone and how she must be worried as she waited on the bluff. He saw the floodlights' glare reflecting off the cobblestones. Then Houston squinted, turning to confront his father. "Why?"

His father studied him. "I don't know what she said about me?" "You were wonderful." His father shrugged. "We didn't get along." The courtyard seemed to tilt. "You're lying! To her death, she claimed to love you!"

Houston's father gaped. "You mean she's . . . Carol's dead?" A block of ice sank in Houston's stomach. "When?" his father said. "Two months ago. A stroke." "But she was only fifty-eight!" "You still remember?"

"Certainly. I think about her all the time. I wondered what her life was like, what you were like, what you and she were doing." "But you said you didn't get along with her." "That doesn't mean I didn't love her." "I don't understand!"

"A special pain," his father said. "To love a person and to know that you in turn aren't loved. She didn't get along with me would be more accurate. You were an accident." Houston paled.

"You didn't know?" his father said. "I thought you wanted me."

"Please, understand. In those days, s.e.x was not the easy thing that it became.

And birth control was not as common. I had friends who carried contraceptives, but I wasn't either confident or cynical enough to have one. Both your mother and I agreed to wait, but one night pa.s.sion overpowered us. That one time. Only once. You were the consequence. Abortion was unthinkable in those days. Morally and legally. The people who performed them could be butchers. We had planned to marry when I finished school. Instead we were married one month after Carol learned she was pregnant. For myself, I loved your mother so much our early marriage was a privilege. I was happy. But your mother was more sensitive to scandal, to the frowns of friends and neighbors and her parents. She had planned one kind of life, and now she had a different kind, less proper, less respectable. She blamed me for the pregnancy. Eventually she hated me."

"Then why did she describe you with such love?"

"To hide the truth. She could have taught you bitterness. She could have made you hate me. But she chose instead to teach you love, to make your origins seem good and decent."

"But I asked her why she didn't marry again. She said that, having known the best, she'd never find your equal. How could she be satisfied with someone less? she said."

"She hated s.e.x. She lied to hide her bitterness."

Houston felt a freezing hollow in his stomach.

"Carol wanted a divorce. In those days that too was a scandal. But the military drafted me, and we agreed that when the war was over I wouldn't come back to her. The separation saved her from the scandal. I suppose I could have argued with the draft board, pointing out I'd soon be a father. But the war was getting worse. They needed every soldier they could get. And I doubted I would win. Your mother made me feel so worthless I let the Army take me. I sent letters, but your mother never answered them. If I survived the war, I hoped I could persuade her to think differently. But deep inside I knew she wouldn't change. When St.

Laurent approached me, I felt so demoralized I took the chance he offered. See, I didn't have anything to lose. I thought if I was suddenly rich I could persuade her."

"Did you try to get in touch with us?"

"I couldn't. Afterward, I realized I'd trapped myself with my own logic. St.

Laurent insisted we stay in hiding. 'One mistake,' he told us, 'one step toward our former lives, a message sent to those we knew, and we'll all go to jail. The military will be watching all our relatives.' He vowed to kill whoever talked.

From the moment we deserted, we were forced to realize that what we once had been was dead. Believe me, I was tempted to risk everything and try to contact Carol. Then I asked myself if she was worth the risk a woman who repeatedly had done her best to let me know how much she hated me. In the end I was a coward." "She received a letter."

"Yes. From St. Laurent. He sent one to each relative. A compromise to us. The military would have told them we were missing, but we didn't want them waiting, hoping we were still alive. The letter would have convinced them we were dead."

"Suppose they took the letter to the War Department." "What harm could that do?

The military couldn't prove the letter was a fake. For one thing, St. Laurent had disappeared he couldn't answer questions. For another, in the chaos of the war, oversights occur, mistakes get made. The War Department would have concluded that its records had been wrong those soldiers weren't just missing, they were dead. How else could there be graves for St. Laurent to tend? The War Department would have apologized and turned to more important matters." "Mother was convinced."

"It was convenient for her. No divorce. Instead the dignity of being a widow.

She wanted to believe I was dead." "And you remarried." Houston's voice was bitter. "A good woman. But I never loved her as I loved your mother. All the same, the years go by. A lonely man accepts a compromise. I've lived in fear of being caught. I've lived by savoring my recollections of your mother. I've raised a son you've seen what Charles is like who isn't worthy of respect. Now I know my choice to go along with St. Laurent was foolish. I'd prefer to have your mother. I should have gone back to her and tried again to make her love me."

"And now what?"

"I want to save your life. You're everything I wish that Charles was. I can't be a father to you it's too late for that but I can treat you as the son I should have raised. I can protect you. Hate me as you will, but also trust me. Let me save your life." "The Russians." "What?"

"Your group works with the Russians." "Utter nonsense. We're criminals. Not madmen. How could you conceive of such absurdity?" "A man named Bellay told me."

"I don't know him."

"A French security official. He's convinced Verlaine is a front for Russian agents."

"Peter." For the first time, Houston's father said his name.

Pete almost answered, "Father."

"We're not spies. We're old men who, having chosen to step outside the law, discovered we had to stay outside the law. Our crime caused other crimes. To sell the gold, we couldn't go through legal agencies. There would have been too many questions. We used fences, brokers for the mob. Their fee was half of what the gold was worth. At that, our gain was enormous. We were greedy, though. To recoup the half we'd lost, we needed to invest the money. But again we had the problem how to explain the money legally? Eventually we joined the mob. We learned how dirty money could be laundered and how crime was easier the second and the third time, much more lucrative than legal business. Now the mob controls us. St. Laurent controls us too. We follow his direction. We are weaker than he is, afraid of the vengeance he'd take if we betrayed him."

"But he's willing to accept Simone and me to keep Monsard and you content. That isn't logical."

"A calculated risk. He needs our good intentions. Within limits, he appeases us.

If we become divided, Verlaine crumbles. Charon is destroyed. And with it, everything St. Laurent has worked for. Even now, he's afraid that Charles will split us. We're moderate, but Charles is vicious. Though I hate to say it of a son, the man is evil. Fight him. Use Verlaine to do some good."

"Christ, you're as frightened of Charles as you are of St. Laurent."

"Much more so. It's terrifying to discover that my flesh and blood can despise me as he does. If he's a danger to his father, who else would be safe from him?

He has no restraints. He's absolutely ruthless."

"So instead of fighting him, you give the job to me? You're doing it again. You wouldn't fight to save your marriage. You won't fight against your son. What will you fight for? Years ago, you turned to St. Laurent to tell you what to do.

And now you turn to me. Christ, turn around and help yourself! Control your life! Take charge of it!"

"I am. I'm fighting for your life."

Pete trembled in the wind. The floodlights glared but gave no warmth. They stung like shards of ice.

"You killed my wife!" he screamed and grabbed his father, planning to destroy him. He would punch him, choke him, kill him! He would punish him! For everything!

Instead, he clutched his father, sobbing.

Chapter 49.

St. Laurent stepped from the shadows. Houston shuddered. As the man came forward silently, his presence brought a chill. He wore a pitch-black cape now, perfectly adapted to the darkness from which he'd emerged. The cape was lined with crimson, and in combination with his gleaming ruffled shirt, his brilliant rigid smile, the colors seemed unnatural, grotesque. His brooding eyes considered Houston, full lips pursed ironically.

"A gesture of agreement, Mr. Houston?"

No reply.

"I must admit your reluctance rea.s.sures me," St. Laurent said.

Still Houston didn't answer.

"After all, if you joined us easily, I'd have to suspect your motives," St.

Laurent said. "All the same, perhaps another guest can help convince you."

"Someone else?"

"Yes. Come with me, please."

St. Laurent clutched his cape and swung to face the darkness. Houston squinted toward his back. Then St. Laurent stepped forward. Houston blinked, for St.

Laurent had disappeared. The night absorbed him, seemed to swallow him. An eerie shiver swept through Houston.

He felt chilled by something else. The Alpine wind continued gusting from the mountains, bringing with it glacier cold. He crossed his arms and hugged his woolen jacket. Even so, the freezing wind pierced through his jacket, gnawing.

As the gale tugged at his hair, he saw the roiling clouds obscure the moon. He'd warned Simone that in these mountains unexpected storms occurred with frightening abruptness. Now he thought about her waiting unprepared. He worried for her, cursing his stupidity, his error in allowing her to stay up there. She should have gone back to the van. If it began to snow . . .

"I'm waiting." St. Laurent's deep voice came seemingly from nowhere.

Houston felt a premonition. Then the wind stung fiercely. As he left the spotlights' glare, he suddenly felt colder. For a moment, while his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was blind. He groped, afraid he'd b.u.mp against a wall. He shuffled on the cobblestones. His eyes tensed light appeared before him, spilling from an opened door.

Houston saw St. Laurent, eyes gleaming as he gestured toward the door. The wind kept shrieking. Houston glanced back toward the courtyard, where large flecks of snow streaked on an angle, settling on the cobblestones.

He shuddered, going in. His father came behind him. St. Laurent came last and shut the door. The wind's shriek now was m.u.f.fled.

Houston warily peered down an ornate hallway. His anxiety made the hallway seem to lengthen.

"No, not that way, Mr. Houston." St. Laurent inclined his head to indicate a stairwell to the right. The steps curved downward. Granite blocks formed contoured walls whose seams were perfecly aligned. The steps were steep. He had the dizzy sense of peering down a well.

He had to force himself forward. The contoured walls gave off an echo as he started down the spiral. He felt cold and damp as he went underground. The stairs wound farther than he had expected. Round and round. With every turn, he guessed he'd see the bottom. But the stairs went lower. He was so accustomed to the pattern that when at last he reached the bottom he turned in antic.i.p.ation of more steps and faced a corridor with dusty lights along the ceiling. Widely s.p.a.ced, they barely touched the shadows on the walls.

The corridor smelled pungent. Moisture glimmered on the stones. As Houston glanced around, he saw two other corridors, identical, stretching right and left.

"It's this way," St. Laurent said.

To the right.

He walked, his father next to him, St. Laurent behind, their footsteps clattering. Houston felt the pressure in his chest. He wondered if he ought to take his chance to overpower St. Laurent and try to get away.

But St. Laurent stepped past him, reaching for a ma.s.sive iron door.

He pulled the latch, tugging at the door. It shifted, creaking.

Light gleamed, growing as the door sc.r.a.ped open.

St. Laurent stepped back. Amused, he studied Houston's face.

Disbelief. Then shock and fright. A torture chamber. Racks and presses, chains and spikes. While Charles loomed in perverse delight, his eyes aglow with pleasure, Houston saw the figure struggling in a chair, the arms and legs bound tightly by thick leather straps, the head caught in a metal harness.

He stared at Simone. He gripped the doorjamb, groaning, struggling to control the paralyzing impotence that scalded him.

She should be on the bluff! She shouldn't be here! How in G.o.d's name did they find her? What in G.o.d's name had Charles done to her?

He saw her muscles tense against the straps. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s heaved underneath her sweater. She twisted in a frenzy.

Houston suddenly had strength. His impotence changed to rage. He moved forward.

"If you've hurt her, Charles . . ." His throat was so contorted his words came out as growls.

He reached his quarry, grabbing.

This time Charles did not step back. Insolent, he drew himself up straighter.

"One more step, I'll yank the lever on this harness. It'll snap her neck."

Charles clutched the lever. Houston stopped. His lungs began to burn.