working for? More to the point, who are you working for?"

"Excuse me." Auger put down her cup and saucer and stood up from the armchair. "This is all very nice, but..." She fumbled for the automatic, sliding it from her waistband. There was a collective intake of breath, even from Custine, as her hand reappeared with the gun. "Just for the record," she said, working off the safety catch, "I know how to use this. In fact, I've already killed with it today."

Floyd sounded calmer than he looked. "So can we dispense with the cover story, at long last? Nice girls

don't carry guns. Especially not automatics."

"That's fine, then, because I'm really not a very nice girl." Auger pointed the gun at Floyd. "I don't want to hurt you."

"That's good to know."

"But understand this: I will if I have to."

"She sounds as if she means it," Custine said. The low rumble of his voice reminded Auger of a pa.s.sing

train.

Floyd stood slowly from his seat, putting down his own tea. "What do you want?"

"A change of clothes. That's all."

Floyd glanced at Greta. "Clothes won't be a problem."

"Good. Open your office. One of you has a key."

Custine was the first to reach slowly into his pocket and tossed a key through the air. Auger grabbed it

with her free hand and tossed it to Floyd. "The rest of you stay here," she ordered. "If anyone moves, I'll shoot Wendell. Got that?"

"No one's going anywhere," Custine said. "Move very slowly," Auger instructed Floyd as she started backing out of the apartment, keeping the gun trained on him. She risked a glance over her shoulder before entering the hallway, but everything was as they had left it, with the elevator still waiting. She backed herself against the wall next to the pebbled-gla.s.s door.

"Go inside," she said. "And if you've got a gun in there, don't think of using it."

Floyd answered in English. When they were alone, it made more sense than French. "Detectives only have guns in the movies."

"You said Greta had left some clothes that would fit me. Find a suitcase and throw the clothes into it."

Floyd unlocked the pebbled-gla.s.s door. "What sort of clothes?"

"Don't get cute. Just throw in a selection and let me worry about it later."

"Give me a minute."

"You've got thirty seconds."

Floyd disappeared into the warren of rooms. Auger heard doors being opened and closed in haste, things being thrown around and rummaged through. His voice echoing, he called back, "Why don't you tell me what all this is about, now that we're on such excellent terms?"

"The less you know the better."

"I've heard that too many times in my life to find it satisfying."

"Get used to it. This is one time when it definitely applies. What's holding you up?"

"I'm looking for a suitcase."

"A bag will do. Anything. I'm getting impatient here, Wendell. Don't make me impatient."

"What colour stockings do you like?"

"Wendell..."

"It doesn't matter anyway. You'll just have to make do with what you're given." More doors were

opened and shut. She heard things sc.r.a.ping on wood. Floyd raised his voice again. "So what's next, Auger? Back to the States, mission accomplished? Or are you not really from the States after all?"

"All you need to know is that I'm on your side," she said.

"That's something, I guess."

"And that I'm here to help you. Not just you, but you and everyone you know."

"And those children? And whoever killed Susan White and Blanchard?"

"I'm not with them. Hurry up."

"You could at least tell me who you're working for. Like it or not, I've helped you now. I didn't have to

bail you out in the station."

"And I said thanks. For what it's worth, you did the right thing, and if you could see the big picture you'd agree with me."

"So describe the big picture to me."

She tapped the barrel of the automatic against the doorframe. "Don't push your luck. Have you found a

bag?"

"Just filling it now."

Auger felt something in her relent. In some small, grudging way she couldn't help but recognise a

kindred spark of stubbornness in Wendell that she knew all too well.

"Listen," she said, "I'd tell you everything if I knew all of it myself. Well, maybe I wouldn't tell you all

of it, but I'd tell you enough to satisfy your curiosity, if that was what you wanted. But the fact is that I haven't got it all figured out yet."

"How much did Susan White have figured out?"

"Not everything, but more than I have, I think."

"Let's hope that isn't why she ended up dead."

"Susan knew she was on to something big, something worth killing for. I think she was scared by the

scale of it."

"Were the two of you both working for the same government?"

"Yes," Auger said carefully. "And it is the United States."

Floyd returned carrying a double-handled canvas bag of dubious condition. It was br.i.m.m.i.n.g with

clothes, almost all of them black or shades of purple and blue so close to black as to make no practical

difference.

"But you were never sisters, were you?"

"Just colleagues," Auger said. "Now stay put and kick the bag in my direction." He complied. "That's good." She picked it up, taking both handles in one hand. "Thank your girlfriend for this. I know she wasn't crazy about lending me her clothes, but it'll all be worth it in the end." She kept the gun pointing at Floyd. "I'm sorry it had to happen this way. I hope things work out for all of you."

"Why can't you just tell me everything you know and let me be the judge?" Floyd asked.

"Because I'm not that cruel." Auger started backing towards the elevator. "All right, here's the deal: I'm leaving now, and I don't want anyone following me. Is that understood?"

"Understood," Floyd said.

Auger stepped into the elevator car, dropped the bag by her side and slid shut the trelliswork gate. "No funny tricks on the way down this time, all right?"

"No funny tricks."

"Good." She pressed the lowest of the bra.s.s b.u.t.tons. "I said it before, but I'll say it again: it's been a pleasure doing business."

The car began to descend.

"Wait," Floyd called, his voice almost drowned out by the whining racket of the elevator. "What did you mean by 'not that cruel?'"

"I meant exactly what I said," Auger replied. "Goodbye, Wendell. I hope you have a long and fulfilling life."

TWENTY.

Auger hailed a taxi on boulevard Saint-Germain. By then she had exchanged her ripped and soot-smeared coat for a hip-length black jacket, with a matching hat tilted low to disguise her grubby face and hair. She would not bear up to close inspection, but in the twilight of late afternoon the transformation was adequate.

"Gare du Nord," she told the driver, before showing him the paperwork she would need to cross the river. "As quick as you can, please."

The driver grumbled something about not being a miracle worker, but before very long they had crossed the river and were haring through the narrow backstreets of the Marais, dodging the thickening flows of Sat.u.r.day traffic. Auger felt an absolute exhaustion looming over her like a crumbling precipice, ready to fall and crush her at any moment. She leaned her cheek against the rattling window of the taxi and through blurred eyes she watched the lights of shops, neon signs and cars slide by in hyphens of red, white, frigid blue and gold. The city looked as untouchable and unreal as a hologram; as fragile as the gla.s.s she was resting against. She was very tempted to think of it that way. None of it mattered, she told herself: nothing that happened here could have any consequence for her life, back in Tanglewood. There was no need to continue with the investigation Susan White had started, for nothing that came out of that investigation could possibly affect Auger's existence back home. Even if something terrible did happen here (and she could not quite shake the feeling that something terrible was indeed going to occur), then it would be no more tragic than the burning of a book or, in the worst case, a library of books. E2 might be lost, but a month ago she had not even known of its existence. Everything and everyone she really knew would continue unaffected, and within a few months the ordinary grind of her life, with its ebb and flow of routine pressures and crises, would have reduced these memories to a thin, dreamlike paste. And it was not as if everything from E2 would be lost for ever if something bad happened, for much had undoubtedly already been learned from the doc.u.ments that had been smuggled back to Antiquities. And though she would feel some sympathy for the people trapped in E2, the trick was to remember that they were not really people at all, but the discarded shadows of lives that had already been lived 300 years ago. Feeling sorry for them would be like feeling sorry for the images in a burning photograph.

Auger felt her resolve collapsing by the minute. She did not want to get on the overnight train to Berlin, not when there was the much simpler option of staying in Paris and waiting for the ship to return. She had been sent here to do a job, and she had done it to the best of her ability. No one could possibly blame her if she stopped now, and thought only of her own preservation.

The taxi slowed and pulled up in the station forecourt, its engine still running while the driver waited for payment. For a moment, Auger could not move, frozen in a lull of indecision. She thought about asking the driver to turn around and take her to another hotel somewhere else in the city, where Floyd and the others would not think to look for her. Or she could follow through with her plan, go into the station and catch the train to Berlin, thereby heading deeper into Europe and deeper into E2. Just the thought of taking the train made a lump rise in her throat, as if she was being asked to step close to the edge of something high up that made her dizzy. She had not been trained for such a mission. Caliskan had primed her-barely-to recover the paperwork, but not to go deeper into E2. Surely there were other people who were bound to be better qualified for it than her...

The thought that this might be true stung her like a lash.

"You can do this," she said to herself, repeating it like a prayer.

The driver turned around in his seat to face her, the hairs on his neck bristling against the collar of his shirt. He didn't care how long she took. The meter was still running.