"My father-in-law used to be in their network, for God's sake! Of course, I'm cooperating with them! They want to find out what happened as much as I do!"

"Then I'll say it again. You can't accept Israeli help. Or any other network's help, for that matter. Our plans for you require an absolute detachment from every organization. You have to be totally disaffected.

Otherwise, if the mission we send you on is compromised, if you're compromised, the enemy could blame the Israelis, and the Israelis would blame us, and we'd be in the same shit as if you were still on our payroll. You said this matter was personal. Keep it that way. No outside help. If you don't agree to this condition, we'll be forced to punish you for breaking your original bargain with us."

"Bastards. I should have known better than to--"

"Negotiate with us?

Romulus, for what it's worth, you had no other option. Otherwise you'd be dead."

"And how am I supposed to--?"

"Use the talents you're famous for. I'm sure Israeli intelligence has already compiled information that gives you leads. By all means, take advantage of it. The professional community wouldn't be surprised if

Mossad got in touch with you about your wife's father, one of their former operatives. But from here on, reject them. You're on your own."

"And who's supposed to believe this?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"This park. This bandstand. We meet here twice in one day. No attempt at concealment. Other networks must be watching us by now."

"That would be my assumption. I certainly hope so." Furious, Saul raised his hands.

"Excellent, Romulus. It's time to put on a show." Bewilderment made

Saul lower his fists. "You're supposed to try to attack me," the pockmarked man said. "My backup's supposed to try to shoot you. To demonstrate your disaffection. To prove to the other networks you're still divorced from us. Here, let me make it easy for you." The pockmarked man stood from the railing and punched Saul--hard--in the stomach. Unprepared, Saul doubled over, gasping. The pockmarked man braced himself, drawing back a fist to punch Saul's face. Instinct overcame surprise and pain. In a blur, pivoting angrily to avoid the blow, Saul thrust the palm of his hand against his assailant's shoulder.

Cartilage cracked. The man fell, groaning, his shoulder dislocated. "You stupid son of a bitch!" Saul said. "I could have killed you!" A gunshot shattered the silence of the park. A bullet slammed against a post that supported the roof of the bandstand. Saul dove to the floor.

The pockmarked man lay near him, holding his shoulder, in agony. Through gritted teeth, he murmured, "Welcome back to the shadow game, Romulus.

Get out of here."

"That sniper's one of you?" Saul demanded in disgust. "I said get out of here!" A bullet splintered the handstand's railing. Saul scrambled across the floor. A third shot walloped the bannister on the steps leading down from the bandstand. He lunged toward the railing on the opposite side of the bandstand and vaulted it, landing on rain-softened grass. With the bandstand between him and the supposedly serious sniper, he raced through darkness toward a carousel. The way he'd been manipulated enraged him. His contact's readiness to suffer if his network ordered him to suffer was sickening. "Welcome back to the shadow game," the pockmarked man had said. Exactly. Shadows.

Illusions, Saul thought with revulsion. In the night, the sniper--no matter how skilled--could easily have made a mistake and not have missed. A shot roared behind him, blowing off the nose of a spotted horse on the carousel. That's enough! Saul mentally shouted. You've made your point! A murky figure appeared ahead of him, from behind the carousel. For an instant, Saul thought it was Erika, who, not understanding the show the network had choreographed, was coming to help him. The figure raised a handgun.

It's not Erika! I'm the target! Misha Pletz had given him a Beretta.

He yanked it from his dark windbreaker, but instead of firing toward the enemy ahead of him, he darted toward the right, hoping to blend with trees and bushes. A gunshot, much closer, made his ears ring. A bullet slashed the leaves of a bush beside him. He dove behind a concrete bench and spun to fire at the figure near the carousel. But the figure was gone. Behind him, urgent footsteps ran along a sidewalk, from the direction of the bandstand. Ahead, he saw a shadow step from behind a tree and aim. Saul fired. But the figure ducked behind the tree. A bullet cracked against the bench, chunks of concrete making Saul flinch.

The bullet had come from a third sniper in the park! Not from behind him or ahead! But to his right! He charged past a fountain. Someone shouted. Sirens wailed. His lungs burning, he surged from the park. The trees ended. The walkway beside the Danube appeared before him. He spun to the right. Fifty yards away, a figure raced out of bushes. He spun to the left. Another figure! Gripping the metal guardrail, his lungs protesting, he heaved himself over. Cold water enveloped him. He couldn't be sure, but swimming under the surface, resisting the weight of his sodden clothes, struggling toward the middle of the river, he thought he heard a bullet strike the water.

Erika hid among shadows on the street side of the park, watching the murky bandstand. She stiffened when she saw Saul's contact punch him in the stomach. Rushing forward, handgun drawn, determined to protect her husband, she noticed Saul pivot to avoid another blow and knock the man to the handstand's floor. A shot. Saul scrambled off the bandstand.

Chaos. First one, then two, then three gunmen raced through the shadowy park. More shots. Sirens wailed in the distance. Erika's only thought was to get to Saul, to help him. But the chaos intensified as Saul charged through the darkness, burst through bushes at the edge of the park, and vaulted the guardrail next to the Danube. A gunman

shot at the water, turned, and saw other figures racing toward him.

Firing repeatedly toward the shadows, not aiming so much as providing distraction, the gunman hurried along the walkway, vanishing into the night. The sirens wailed louder. Figures darted in separate directions out of the park. She was one of them. She couldn't guess where Saul would surface along the river. Knowing he'd do everything possible to save himself, she had her own obligation. Indeed she took for granted that Saul would expect her to do what she now intended. Retreating from the park in the direction from which she'd arrived, she raced across the street and into an alley, reaching its far end just as police cars stopped at the park. She sprinted across another street and into a farther alley, her mind repeating the same frantic thought. Yes, Saul, would understand she couldn't find him; he had to try to save himself on his own. She had to save... A restaurant glowed before her. Lunging into its lobby, barely registering the smell of sauerkraut, she shoved coins into a pay phone. She dialed her father's apartment. One buzz.

Two. But nobody answered. Three. She shuddered with relief when she heard a familiar, reassuring voice say, "Hello."

"Misha, it's Erika! I don't have time to explain!" She struggled to catch her breath. "It's bad! Wake Christopher! Don't even bother dressing him! Get out of there!" No response. "Misha!"

"Where shall I meet you?"

"Where my father was supposed to go but didn't!" she said. "You understand? Every morning and evening."

"Yes," Misha said. "I'll wake the boy at once. He'll be safe."

"I pray to God."

"Just make sure you remain safe."

"Get moving!" She hung up the phone and turned to see startled patrons of the restaurant staring at her in the lobby. She rushed past them, leaving the restaurant. But what about Saul? she worried as she ran along the street. Would he remain alive to reach the rendezvous they'd agreed upon?

Gallagher's voice had the force of a shout. "Were they ours?" The pockmarked man winced, adjusting the sling on his dislocated arm. "Not unless you assigned another team to cover this. They sure as hell weren't on my team."

"Jesus." Gallagher sat rigidly at the head of the conference table. Two other men waited in nervous silence. Gallagher drummed his fingers.

"Three of them?"

"In addition to our own man, yes," the pockmarked man said. "We played it exactly as you wanted. I punched him. He defended himself. Our marksman opened fire, pretending to want to kill him."

"I want to know about the others,"

Gallagher said. "The first was hidden behind a carousel. The other two seemed to come out of nowhere. They tried to catch Romulus in a pincer movement."

"And they weren't pretending? You're certain they meant to kill him?"

"Romulus surely believed it--he returned their fire. Before the police could arrive, the intruders fled. Of course, so did we." Gallagher's lips tightened. "If only Romulus had managed to kill one. Then at least we'd have a body. We'd be able to find out who else was in the game. Damn it, your team should have kept closer watch on the park!"

"We couldn't. You said you wanted witnesses from other networks. The point of the demonstration was to convince every organization that

Romulus was still an outcast. We had to back off, to let our audience take position."

"Great. The operation worked so well it failed."

"Maybe it didn't fail," the pockmarked man said. Gallagher raised his eyebrows in question. "If anything, since Romulus almost was executed, the other networks will be even more convinced he's not involved with us," the pockmarked man said. "Nothing's changed. He can still pursue his vendetta. He still has to give us the favor he promised."

"Does he? Will he? What if Romulus believes the intruders belonged to us? Suppose he decides the mission went out of control and your men did try to kill him? He won't repay any favor. What he might do is turn against us. What a mess! To keep him on our side, to use him later, we might be forced to help him."

"On the other hand," the pockmarked man said, "we don't even know if he survived."

Chilled and exhausted, Saul waded from the murky Danube. It had taken him fifteen minutes to swim out of