Houston stumbled toward them. Branding irons! Fire!

He was frantic as he found the hearth, the wood stacked by the fireplace. He stooped. The match went out. He lit another. In its flicker, he ripped splinters from the wood. He crumbled them and built a tiny mound. He shoved two fingers in the mound to form a hollow.

But the match went out. He struck another, easing it toward the hollow. Bark crackled, sparking; flames began to grow. He gently blew on them. In thirty seconds, he slumped back. The flames spread. He smelled acrid smoke before the draft caught and the smoke swirled up the chimney. Smoke. The guards on the parapets will see it. They'll come down to put the fire out. Then Houston remembered the snow he'd seen falling outside. The snow would hide the smoke. He relaxed as trembling light groped through the room. It stretched until it reached Simone, but not beyond her toward the murky corners.

Houston's forehead dripped with sweat. He hurried toward Simone. "How is he?"

"I can't stop the bleeding!"

Houston fumbled in his jacket, yanking out a handkerchief. He pressed it on the old man's b.l.o.o.d.y forehead. Instantly the hand- kerchief was soaked. "A blow that hard. His skull must be fractured." Houston saw the way Simone reacted. "Hey," he said. "I could be wrong."

He gently shoved the old man's b.l.o.o.d.y hair aside. He saw the deep depression in the skull. Despite the fire's heat, he suddenly felt cold. His breath froze in his chest. The old man's eyelids fluttered.

"Pete, he's waking up!"

Or dying, Houston thought.

The old man blinked. His lips hung open. "Who "

"Simone. I'm with you. Peter's with you."

"I can't see."

"You have to rest. Your head . . . Don't try to talk. You have to save your strength."

"But St. Laurent "

"He locked us in. He plans to kill us," Houston said.

"I tried to warn you."

Houston watched, appalled. The old man's eyes rose whitely in their sockets.

"Tried to stop them too." The old man jerked. "To stop Ver-laine."

"Pete, help me!"

Houston grabbed the old man's thrashing legs.

"He was my friend."

"Who? St. Laurent?"

"He wasn't worthy of my friendship." Then the old man blurted, "Charon."

"What?"

"The Russians pay us."

"But I asked my father. He denied you work for them."

"He had to lie or he'd be killed." The old man gagged. But when he cleared his throat he vomited.

Simone was frantic, wiping at her father's lips. "Don't talk."

"No time. You have to know. It started when they helped the Germans. First that general and then the maniacs who ran the concentration camps."

"But St. Laurent denied he helped war criminals."

"Lies. Always lies. After the war, he helped the Russians." Houston tensed.

"And then the PLO. The Red Brigades. The Baader-Meinhof."

Terrorism, hate, insanity.

"The IRA. The Arabs and the Cubans and . . ." The old man spastically contorted.

"All of them. They all use Charon."

"Why?" Pete said.

"A pipeline. An escape route. Charon is a network. It arranges safe ways in and out of countries."

"For a.s.sa.s.sins?"

"Pa.s.sports, transportation, hiding places. Anything you want. The man who shot the Pope."

Simone clutched at her mouth.

"He hired us." The old man's body arched. "The hotel."

"What about it?" Houston said.

"A safe house for a.s.sa.s.sins. That's why Charon owns it. At this moment a killer waits there. He will shoot " He paused, unable to go on. "You've seen him."

"Who?"

"He favors lilac talc.u.m powder."

Houston gaped. Monsard shook uncontrollably. He thrashed.

"Pete, he's convulsing!"

Houston gripped him tightly, but the old man's strength was superhuman. Houston lost his hold and fell away. The old man kicked his stomach. Houston doubled over. He felt sickened by the old man's liquid choking sounds.

My G.o.d, his tongue! He's swallowing it!

Houston couldn't use his hand to reach the tongue. The old man's jaws might snap together, biting his fingers off.

"Pete!"

Houston swung to face the room, to find a stick, a piece of metal. Anything!

He saw the fire in the hearth. He scrambled toward the wood beside it, grabbing a branch. He ran back toward Monsard.

The old man's face was dark. He pawed his throat, gagging.

Houston forced the wood between the old man's teeth. He probed and found the tongue where it had sunk back toward the throat, and as the old man's teeth gnawed on the branch, the tongue curved forward, pressed down by the wood.

The old man breathed. His hands slipped from his throat.

Houston stiffened; he heard a different sound. He stared at the iron door.

Despite its thickness, he was sure he'd heard two m.u.f.fled, dry metallic spits from out there in the hall.

"What is it?" Simone asked.

He didn't know. He stood in anger. If they'd come for him ... He grabbed the mace that Charles had used, moving toward the wall so when the door was opened he would not be seen.

He heard the rattle of a key. The door creaked open. Houston saw a shadow enter.

As he swung the mace, the figure lurched away. The mace cracked sharply on the granite wall.

His father.

The impact of the mace against the wall made Houston's hand sting. His shoulder swelled as if he'd been punched.

His father. Houston saw he was alone, dropped the mace, and lunged.

He froze when he saw the handgun. An automatic with a silencer.

His father shoved the barrel with its tubed extension forcibly toward Houston's face. "I've come to help you," he said. "Don't make me kill you."

Houston stared. Beyond his father, he saw bodies in the hallway, two guards lying limply in their blood.

"You shot them?" Houston said.

"You have to leave. St. Laurent has made arrangements. He's coming for you."

"Why?"

"Because you know too much, you G.o.dd.a.m.ned idiot!"

"That isn't what I mean. Why help me?"

"You're my son."

Pete glared. "That's what you told me in the courtyard. Then you changed your story. You told St. Laurent you didn't care."

"To keep my freedom. If I'd acted like Monsard, they would have locked me in here with you. I was lying to gain time. I planned to come back down."

"You're lying again."

"Those dead guards in the hallway are they lies? I tell you St. Laurent is coming! Take your chance and get away!"

His father hurried toward Simone. He peered down at her father. "Leave him."

"No!" she said.

"But you can't help him. You can't take him with you."

"No! He needs me!"

"Then you'll die."

"I have to save him!"

"Don't you understand? He's dead!"

She flinched and jerked away. "But he was moving! No!" She nudged her father.

"Show him you're alive!" She nudged him harder. "No! Dear G.o.d!"

Her father's hand flopped off his chest. His knuckles thudded on the floor. The stick protruded from his mouth.

"He isn't dead! He can't be!"

Houston pulled her up.

She slapped his face. He felt the sting.

"He isn't dead!" she wailed.

"You have to come with me."

Her hand flashed toward his face again. He caught her wrist and shook her. "No!

I'm sorry he's dead! He was brave! He tried to help us! But dammit, listen to me! We have to leave!"

His father knelt by Monsard feeling for a pulse, shaking his head despondently.

"We're going with you," Houston said.

He forced Simone across the room. Her tearful eyes strained toward her father.

Grief made her awkward. She stumbled, b.u.mping against the doorjamb.

Houston spun her toward the hall. When she saw the two dead guards, she retched.