shining white, like the sun behind a thundercloud. "Thank you again. I can see myself out."

"It's been a pleasure doing business."

She paused at the door. "Mister Floyd? You never did tell me your Christian name."

"Does it matter?"

"I'd like to know. You've been so kind, after all."

"The name's Wendell."

"Don't you like it?"

"It's always sounded like a sucker's name to me. That's why my friends call me Floyd."

"As a matter of fact," she said, "I rather like it. Wendell seems such an honest sort of name-to me, at least."

"Then to you I'm Wendell."

"In which case...goodbye, Wendell."

"Goodbye, Miss Auger."

"Verity, please," she said, correcting him, then walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.

Floyd waited a moment and then slipped his hand into his pocket, rea.s.suring himself that the postcard was still there.

He liked her. She had the looks and seemed to be a nice enough lady. But he couldn't help wondering how she would have reacted if he'd mentioned "silver rain."

SIXTEEN.

Auger shut the door behind her, clutching her handbag and the biscuit tin to her chest as if they might be s.n.a.t.c.hed away at any moment. On the landing outside the detective's premises, a heavily made-up old woman studied her with sly, knowing eyes while enveloping herself in a haze of silver-blue cigarette smoke. She said nothing, but the look on her face conveyed both accusation and bored indifference, as if she had witnessed every possible sin in the world and had long since ceased to be shocked by any of them. Her attention flicked momentarily to the tin Auger was holding so protectively, then her eyes lost focus and whatever gleam of malice had been there a moment before. Auger was about to take the stairs down to the next landing when she noticed that another woman-this one young, with very black hair held back from her face with a spotted red headscarf-was on her hands and knees, waxing and polishing the lower steps.

The woman looked up as Auger was about to descend. "Please," she said, nodding towards the black iron framework of the elevator shaft that rose up the centre of the stairwell.

Grateful that the elevator car was ready and waiting, Auger stepped inside and slid shut the trellised gate, then pressed the b.u.t.ton for the ground floor. With a thud and a whine, the elevator began its inching descent, creeping past the cleaning girl. The elevator descended another floor and then came to an abrupt, rattling halt, exactly between landings. Auger swore and pressed the b.u.t.ton again, but the elevator refused to budge. She tried forcing open the sliding gate, but it had locked itself tight.

"Hey," she called out. "Can someone help me? I'm stuck in this thing."

She heard the cleaning girl say something, but it sounded more sympathetic than useful. Auger tried the elevator b.u.t.ton again, but with no more effect than before. Feeling suddenly dejected, it began to dawn on her that she might be stuck inside it for hours while some overworked engineer made his grumbling way across the city on a Sat.u.r.day. a.s.suming anyone had the presence of mind to call for a.s.sistance, which might be one a.s.sumption too many. She called out again-if the cleaning girl didn't answer or understand her, then perhaps she might be able to rouse Floyd-but this time she heard nothing at all in reply.

A minute pa.s.sed with no further sign of movement. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing and the occasional metallic rattle as her movements caused the elevator car to chafe against its restraints. The building sounded utterly deserted.

She heard a door shut somewhere above her, followed by a rapid succession of descending footsteps. The footsteps quickened in pace and then became thuds, as if someone was skipping two or three steps at a time. Auger peered through the meshwork screen that const.i.tuted the elevator car's roof and saw a dark figure circle the landing immediately above her. Before she could call out, the figure had bounded down the steps surrounding the part of the shaft in which she was stuck in a series of flighty jumps and was on the landing below, continuing towards street level. Auger had only seen the figure in full view for an instant, and that blurred by motion, but she had not been able to make out any facial details. The figure was wearing a high-collared coat, a fedora jammed low on his head with the brim turned down. For an absurd moment she wondered if it might have been Floyd, but even as the idea occurred to her, she dismissed it as stupid.

A moment later, the elevator buzzed back into life and resumed its descent. It came to a halt on the next landing and, not wanting to take any further chances, Auger opened the gate and made the rest of her journey on foot. With the box still in her possession, it was a relief to reach daylight. Somehow she felt safer outdoors, illogical as that may have been.

She looked up and down rue du Dragon, but there was no sign of the running man, or of anything else obviously out of place. The street was as quiet and sleepy as it had been when she had arrived, but there were some pedestrians walking along it, and if anyone was to try anything against her, she knew she could count on one or two witnesses from the equine butcher's shop on the ground floor of Floyd's building.

A little further down the street, Auger stepped into the doorway of a boarded-up hosier's shop, long out of business, and snapped the lid from the tin. Inside, as Floyd had shown her in his office, was a thick rubber-banded bundle of paperwork and doc.u.ments. She took this bundle and stuffed it into her handbag. Having no further use for the tin, she pushed it into a pile of cardboard boxes and other debris that had built up in one corner of the shop doorway.

She stepped back into the street and walked to the south end of rue du Dragon, crossing rue de Sevres on to the much wider thoroughfare of rue de Rennes. As she reached the corner, she heard the rumble of a car starting somewhere behind her, and as she walked north on rue de Rennes, she risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the grilled nose of the vehicle emerging on to the same street. The car rolled forward until the cab was in full view, but the sunlight flaring from the windscreen prevented her from making out the driver. Auger quickened her pace, and when she allowed herself another glance back, there was no sign of the car. But there were many similar cars parked along the roadside, and it would not have been difficult for the driver to lose his amongst them.

Auger continued along rue de Rennes, stopping every now and then to try to flag down a taxi. But either it was the wrong time of day, or there was some Parisian knack she hadn't yet grasped, for the taxis sped on in an indifferent blur of black metal and chrome, leaving her muttering under her breath. Auger glanced back once more and thought she saw the same car again, inching along at walking pace, but no sooner had her suspicions begun to build than the car swerved away down a side street.

Auger told herself sternly that she was being just as paranoid as Susan White's fict.i.tious persona. The trick was to see things from Floyd's point of view, not hers. The detective could have no possible idea of the significance of the paperwork in the box. Her story was entirely reasonable, and Floyd should have no grounds to doubt her word. Susan White had even mentioned that her sister would be coming for her belongings.

Still nervous, but forcing herself to act a little more calmly, Auger realised that she had arrived at the entrance to the Metro station at Saint-Germain-des-Pres. She would have preferred the speed and safety of a taxi ride, but the train was the next best thing. She fished money from her purse, still not completely familiar with the coinage, and bought a one-way ticket. A train was grinding into the underground station as she cleared the turnstile.

Auger got aboard, moving along the compartment as the doors closed themselves and the train lurched away. She found a seat next to two young women who had their faces buried in fashion magazines. The train burrowed its way south, slowing into Saint-Sulpice, the station's walls plastered with faded sepia-tinted advertis.e.m.e.nts for perfume, stockings and tobacco. As people moved on and off the train, Auger checked them out in her peripheral vision, searching for anyone who looked like Floyd or the figure she had seen descending the stairs. But she recognised no one, and as the train pulled away into the darkness of the next tunnel, she allowed herself to relax a notch. After a minute or so, the train slowed into the next station on the line, Saint-Placide, and Auger once again kept an eye on the pa.s.sengers coming and going. This time, however, it was with less apprehension and more a guarded interest in the private lives of these unwitting prisoners. It was then that Auger noticed a woman stepping out of the train two carriages ahead of the one she was in. The woman had a pretty face framed by very black hair, and it took Auger a moment to place her as the girl who had been cleaning the stairs in rue du Dragon. She had removed her headscarf and ap.r.o.n, but her features were unmistakable. Rather than heading for the exit, the woman walked alongside the train until she reached carriage next to Auger's, reboarding just as the doors hissed shut and the train hurtled back into darkness.

Auger clutched the handbag tightly against her stomach, resisting the urge to open it to make sure that the paperwork was still safe and sound. Presently, the train began to slow into Montparna.s.se. Auger made sure she was standing right next to the door as the train pulled to a stop, and was relieved when a surge of people followed her from the train, enveloping and jostling her towards the tiled corridors and stairs that led to the number six line. She pushed ahead of them, all the while clutching her handbag against her like a living thing that needed protection. Climbing stairs, she glanced back and saw the black-haired woman behind her, but almost lost amongst the faces and hats of the other pa.s.sengers. The number six line ran on an elevated section of track, and when Auger reached daylight she was relieved to see that a train was already in the station, on the point of departure. She ran for it, nearly tripping in her painfully tight shoes, and just managed to get aboard as the doors slid shut. As the train pulled away and Auger caught her breath, she saw the black-haired woman still waiting on the platform.

Auger checked her watch. It was just before ten. Barely an hour had pa.s.sed since she had walked into the detective's office.

Floyd picked up the telephone on the first ring. "Greta?"

"It's me," she confirmed, sounding a little out of breath.

"I lost her," Floyd said. He was sitting in the sad, shuttered spare room in Montparna.s.se. Sophie was upstairs with Marguerite, and the house had a peculiar kind of Sunday-morning calm about it, even though it was only Sat.u.r.day. "I expected her to get into a taxi as soon as she left the office. But she was on foot, and there was no way I could keep up with her in the car without her getting suspicious. I don't think she recognised me, but I wasn't going to take any chances. Better to lose her this time and hope we can pick her up again near Blanchard's apartment."

"You think she'll go back there?"

"She might have unfinished business, especially when she gets a look at what's inside the box."

"Maybe she will. In any case, we haven't lost her yet. I know where she's staying."

Floyd brightened. Now and then a piece of unexpected good fortune dropped into his hands like an early Christmas present. "You managed to keep up with her?"

"Not exactly," Greta said. "I followed her on foot until she reached the station at Saint-Germain. I skulked in the shadows while she bought a ticket, then bought one for myself while she headed for the train. I got on the same train as she did, but made sure I wasn't in the same carriage. I moved up the train in Saint-Placide, then followed her as she changed on to the number six line at Montparna.s.se. Luckily, I know that station pretty well: I spent most of my childhood changing trains there. I saw the direction she was taking, but she managed to get on to a train before I reached the platform."

"Then you lost her."

"Only for a couple of minutes. I caught the next train out of Montparna.s.se. We were on the elevated line, moving west, and you have a good view of the street from those elevated stations, so I kept my eyes peeled. It paid off. I saw her walking away from the station at Dupleix, just as we were slowing down. I got off the train, hared down the steps and followed her all the way home, always hanging a block behind her."

"I'm impressed," Floyd said. "Did she look as though she thought she was being followed?"

"I'm not a mind-reader, Floyd, but she seemed a lot less twitchy than before. My guess is she thought the change of trains had thrown anyone following her off her scent."

"I'll make a detective out of you one of these days, just you watch." Floyd reached for his notebook and pen. "Tell me where she's staying."

Greta gave him the address of a hotel on avenue Emile Zola, a short walk from Dupleix Metro station. She was calling from a bra.s.serie frequented by change-of-shift car workers from the nearby Citroen factory. "I can't tell you her room number, or how she likes her toast done. And I can't stay here all day, either."

"You don't have to. I can be there within the hour."

"There's no way you can get here sooner?"

"I'll have someone on my tail as well, remember," Floyd said.

"Another of those horrible children?" she asked, nervousness creeping into her voice.

"No, just Belliard's goons. They followed me to Montparna.s.se. I think I can lose them if I cross the river twice, but that will take time. I don't want them thinking I'm taking an interest in Verity Auger. If they do, awkward questions might be asked."

"What do you mean, 'awkward questions?'"

"The kind that will involve a heavy dental bill."

"Be here as soon as you can. This is as far into this as I want to go, Floyd. I never had aspirations to play the girl detective, and I'm not on your payroll."

"You did a good job," Floyd said as she hung up. He set his receiver down and began to plot his route across Paris, incorporating as many sudden turns and reversals as he dared.

Auger turned the key, locking the door from inside, and crashed on to the bed, suddenly overwhelmed

by relief and exhaustion.

She closed her eyes for a few minutes, then hauled herself to the pea-green washbasin and splashed some cold water on to her face. "Stay sharp," she said aloud. "The hard part might be over, but you still need to make it back to the portal. Don't get too complacent, Auger. And don't talk to yourself, either.

It's the first sign of madness."

She removed her horrid, tight Parisian shoes and dialled down to the front desk for a pot of coffee. Then she called down to the lobby again and asked to be connected to an external number.

"Just a moment, madame."

Someone picked up on the third ring, answering in poorly enunciated French. "To whom am I speaking?"

"This is Auger," she said.

"Good," Aveling answered, slipping immediately back into English. "Do you have-"

"Yes, I have the items. Can you get a message through to Caliskan?"

"Not possible, I'm afraid." He was speaking from the safe house, a rented room a minute's walk from Cardinal Lemoine. No direct telephone connection existed between the surface of Paris and the concealed chambers underground. "We're having some technical difficulties with the link."

"Tell me it isn't serious."

"It's being worked on. It's not the first time the link has become unstable, and it'll most likely sort itself out within a few hours. It's probably not related."

"Not related to what?"

"Anything you need worry about."

"Tell me, you patronising..." She tried to insult him, dredging her repertoire for something suitably nasty, but it was as if a mental roadblock had been installed between her brain and her mouth. "There's political trouble back home," Aveling interjected before she could continue. "That Slasher offensive everyone was expecting? It's begun. But don't you fret. Just bring the box and let us worry about the bigger picture. We're all very happy with the way you've handled things so far. It would be a shame to spoil things now, wouldn't it?"

"I could just burn the papers," Auger said. "Or throw them away somewhere where no one will ever find them. What's the problem with that?"

"We'd rather you returned them to us. That way we can make sure nothing has gone astray."

"I can make it to the portal," she said, "but I'm not certain that's such a great idea at the moment. I'm pretty sure someone followed me here, from the detective's office."

"What kind of someone?"

"Someone working for him, I think. He seemed very willing to hand over the box. With hindsight, it looks as though he always intended to have someone tail me."

"And he's just a local detective?"

"Yes, the one I told you about after I spoke to Blanchard."

"He's probably just curious. Do your best to shake him off your tail, but don't worry about him."

"There's more going on here than you've told me," she said.

"Listen carefully," Aveling said. "It's exactly ten-forty now. Check your watch and synchronise."

"Done."

"At exactly noon we will arrange for a two-minute power interruption on the Metro line running through