"Could be. Except these postmarks are from several days ago. If what's inside is valuable, I wonder why n.o.body came to get them." Houston shook another package.

"Could be heroin or money. h.e.l.l, it could just be books." He pursed his lips.

"Maybe nothing's wrong here."

"And the office wasn't locked," she said.

"Suggesting that these packages are worthless. Dammit," Houston said, "we don't know any more than what we learned downstairs."

"I have a thought." He studied her. "You're still determined?" she asked.

Houston nodded.

"We can wait in an empty office down the hall. If someone comes to get the packages, we'll follow him. He might be St. Laurent. Or he might go to St.

Laurent."

He grinned. "Simone, that's " Houston stopped his sentence short. His grin dissolved. On guard, he turned abruptly toward the door. Footsteps creaked in the hall outside.

They hadn't closed the door. Simone stepped backward. Houston swung around the desk. The janitor peered at them from the corridor. "Ca va bien?" His eyes were nervous.

Houston breathed out, understanding. Sure, this guy's supposed to watch the building. Now he's worried that we're in here. He's afraid he'll lose his job. "Explain that we're importers," he told Simone, "that we'll come back when someone's here."

She translated, and they started out. The janitor stared past them toward the office.

"Merci," Houston said.

They walked along the hallway. "Later," Houston told the man. "Plus tard." They reached the stairs.

"We can't wait in an empty office now," he said to her. "We'll have to find another way." They started down the stairs.

The janitor went in the office as if making sure that nothing had been touched.

The phone rang from behind them in the office. Houston paused and turned.

"Simone, wait. Listen. Translate what he says."

"He might not answer it."

The phone stopped. Silence. Houston waited tensely.

Out of sight, the janitor said, "Oui?"

The blast disintegrated walls. The roof collapsed. The hallway disappeared. The shock wave toppled Houston backward, slamming him against the wall.

He dropped, weightless, groaning when he hit the stairs. Simone screamed. He smelled smoke and something acrid, sharp, and pungent. He felt heat. A portion of a wall crashed near him.

Something landed on him, squirming. In a panic, Houston saw it was Simone. In the fierce light of the flames, he saw the blood on her, on both of them.

He screamed. The scorching heat was closer. He had fallen down the stairway to the third floor. Glancing upward, he saw flames envelop everything above him.

Coughing from the smoke, he felt the heat press onto him. His clothes were warm.

His vision swirled.

"We've got to " But he breathed in smoke and, choking, couldn't finish.

He stumbled with her down the wreckage of the stairway. Once they lost their balance. Once they fell back as a flaming chunk of ceiling dropped before them.

Clutching the banister, they climbed down to a different section of the stairs.

Or tried to. For the banister, which had been wobbly to begin with, gave way, and they fell hard on the next floor's landing. Houston moaned from the pain that jolted through his body. But the flames were high above them now. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Simone was white-faced, shaking. She had strength to stand. They continued downward. In a minute they lurched coughing from the building. At the curb they slumped across the fender of a car. A crowd had gathered. People rushed to help.

And through the roar of flames above him, Houston heard the strident wail of fast-approaching sirens.

Chapter 17.

"In the morning, we'll start sorting through the wreckage," the inspector said, "though from the scope of the destruction, I suspect we won't find much."

They were in a narrow room with seven desks. Near Houston, two policemen hurriedly made phone calls. Houston rubbed his shoulder, glancing toward them.

"Feeling any better?" the inspector asked.

"Sore."

"I'll bet you are."

The ambulance attendants had rushed Simone and Houston to Emergency. Slight burns. Contusions. Shock. Simone had sprained a wrist; Houston had dislocated a shoulder. The bandages around his injured ribs had minimized the impact. Houston was nonetheless sore from head to feet.

And dizzy from the medication he'd been given. He did not recall when day had turned to evening, and he had no recollection of his trip from the hospital to the police station. Indeed, he'd been so groggy that he hadn't thought it strange when the inspector, who had said his name was Alfred Bellay, introduced himself in English.

But the startled look that crossed Simone's face made him wonder. Suddenly alert, he studied this tall, slim, good-looking, well-dressed man. "Did you speak English?" he said.

"That's why I've been a.s.signed to you. As soon as the firemen discovered you were American, they called to ask for my help. Years ago, in Paris, I had dealings with the British, and I had to learn the language."

Houston's thoughts became more clear. This man seemed in his middle thirties. If, when younger, he had started his career in Paris, then he must have stepped on someone's toes to be forced to work in Roncevaux. Lord, who would want to live here?

Alfred Bellay said, "Then you a.s.sume it was a bomb?"

"I can't imagine what else."

"Leaking gas perhaps."

"I smelled none."

"Mademoiselle?"

She shook her head.

"Then you suspect those packages contained explosives?"

"We checked everything inside the room, but we didn't open the packages. Where else could the bomb have been?"

"The phone rang."

"Yes."

"The janitor went in the room to answer it."

"That's right."

"He picked the phone up, spoke, and ..." Bellay raised his hands to mime an explosion. "That's right."

"Then we have two possibilities. The bomb went off by accident, at random, for no special reason at that time. That's one. Or else the bomb went off exactly when it should have, detonated by remote control. The phone itself would not have detonated the device. If so, the first ring would have been sufficient. I recall you said the phone rang twice." Pete nodded.

"Then whoever called was waiting to make certain there was someone in the office. When he heard a voice, he pressed a b.u.t.ton, and a shortwave signal tripped the bomb."

Houston had already thought of that, reluctant to suggest the possibility, suspicious of how Bellay would react.

"You haven't told me what the two of you were doing there," Bellay said.

"We went to see a man."

"Please, Mr. Houston," Bellay said. "You're making this tedious. I ask a question, and you answer no more than you have to. Someone uninvolved would willingly elaborate. You know more than you're volunteering."

"Go on. Tell him," Simone said.

Bellay glanced at her, his eyebrows raised. "So you speak English too."

She nodded.

"Then if nothing else, at least the three of us have that in common. Tell me what? Go on and finish."

"Someone wants to kill us," Houston said.

"That seems apparent. Why?"

"We're looking for a man. Pierre de St. Laurent. He disappeared in nineteen forty-four. A man suggested we could find him in that office."

"What man? Who suggested?"

"We don't know. He didn't give his name. He left a message and was gone."

"So you came here."

"The first time I was with my wife. There was a traffic accident. My wife was killed."

Bellay looked at him, startled. "Deliberate, you think, considering what's happened?"

"I'm certain."

"I was doubtful, though," Simone intruded. "I agree with Peter now. Somebody tried to kill him. To prevent him from locating St. Laurent."

"And why is St. Laurent important to you?" Bellay asked. His eyes were hard on Houston.

"That's the strange part," Houston said. "My father was a soldier. He was killed in nineteen forty-four. This St. Laurent maintained his grave. I merely felt like thanking him."

As Houston finished, he glanced toward the checkered floor. He didn't know why he still lied, why he did not admit that he'd been searching for his father's grave. Too personal, too complicated, he thought. No, something else. And you're afraid of it. You won't face up to it.

"Commendable," Bellay said dryly. "But apparently he wants no thanks. You say St. Laurent disappeared in nineteen forty-four?"

"Yes, and the more dead ends I found, the more I was determined to find him.

Then that stranger sent us here, and "

Bellay frowned. "There's something else."

"I'm telling you the truth."

"But all of it? Surely you can see my point. This incident is senseless. Why would St. Laurent try to kill you?"

"That's what's driving me crazy. I don't know."

"Alfred?"

Bellay swung to face the two policemen who had been making phone calls in the background throughout this conversation. One of them had spoken to him.

"Oui?" he answered.

The conversation was in French. Simone seemed agitated as she listened.

Bellay turned to Houston. "That entire block of buildings has a manager, a rental agent. He checked through his records. Ver-laine Enterprises owns that building, but they never heard of St. Laurent. The rental agent verifies that St. Laurent did lease the office, though."

"Then he can give us a description of the man."

"I wish it were that simple. St. Laurent conducted all of his transactions by phone and through the mail. He paid in cash by letter."

Houston groaned, in part because the sedatives had worn off and his back was aching fiercely, but in part as well because he'd reached another impa.s.se. Once again Pierre de St. Laurent had managed to evade him.

"When?" he asked.