The old man laughed softly and shrugged. "If he did, it is one of those truths now lost in the mists. But to go on with the story ... On another day some evil men, who were jealous of the shaman's powers, set upon him in a snowy field. They stabbed a spear into his side so that they might drink his blood. But the taste of it drove them mad. They fell into fighting amongst themselves, killing each other until none was left alive."

The old man gave the casket a final buff, then took a step back to admire his handiwork. "It was nearly nightfall when the shaman's wife and daughters came upon him there in the field, his red blood staining the snow. They wailed and tore at their hair, and their hearts broke into pieces. Then they gathered up his shattered body and bore it away to a secret cave behind a waterfall of ice, where they guard it to this day and will for all eternity.... But, my dear, why are you crying? It is only a story. One story among many that are told around the fire during the long and cold Siberian nights."

"Sorry," Zoe said, feeling a little silly as she wiped the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I honestly don't know where that came from. It must be the jet lag." She also thought, though, that there was something more to this particular story than what the old man was letting on, but she let it go. "So tell me what happened after you met up with Lena in the noodle shop."

"Why, I offered her my services, of course. As was my duty."

The old man's eyes had lit up with a look of wistful memory, and Zoe wondered if he and Lena had been lovers for a time. It was hard to imagine, looking at him now, but he would have been a young man after the war.

After Lena died," he went on, "I kept in touch with her daughter, Katya, over the years, and in the fall of 1962 Katya came to me here and asked for my help in safeguarding the altar's secrets for the Keeper who would come after her. She never told me the nature of the danger she was in, out of fear perhaps that with too much knowledge the danger could rub off onto me."

The old man stuffed the cloth back in his coat, then removed a pocket watch from his vest, and Zoe saw that instead of a fob on the end of the chain, there was a key. With a griffin on the end of it.

"It takes two keys to open the casket," he said. "Mine and the Keeper's. Your grandmother Katya designed it. Clever, is it not? But then over the centuries you Keepers have always been clever at devising riddles to keep the altar safe from the world."

"It's like a safe-deposit box in a bank," Zoe said, feeling more than a little intimidated. She couldn't even solve the old riddles. G.o.d help them all if she ever had to come up with any new ones.

The old man pushed his key into the lock on the left end of the casket, then motioned for Zoe to do the same with her key to the lock on the right.

He met her eyes and actually winked at her. "Now we must both turn our keys simultaneously for the mechanism to work."

"Okay," Zoe said, feeling both a little silly and so curious she was about to burst.

The old man said, "One, two ... now," and they turned their keys. There was a soft click and the casket lid sprang open a quarter inch.

Zoe reached for it, but the old man stopped her. "Not yet. For this I must not be present. There is only one Keeper, and she is always a she. But then you knew that, of course."

Zoe nodded, thinking of those names in her grandmother's letter, Lena, Inna, Svetlana, Larina ... And then she remembered something Anna Larina had told her only yesterday in San Francisco. How Lena Orlova liked to sing to her daughter when she was little, about being a blessed girl child from a proud, long line who wouldn't be the last.

"Thank you, Boris."

He crossed one arm over his waist and bowed slightly. "I wish you G.o.d speed. I fear that you will need it."

He turned and pulled aside a smaller velvet curtain-purple this time-to reveal a plain oak door. "When you are ready to leave, it is best if you do so through here. You will find yourself in a small courtyard. To your right will be a wine bar, and if you go through it, you will emerge onto the Boulevard St.-Michel. If you're of a mind to pause for a little libation and without making your wallet squeal too loudly, I can recommend the house Bordeaux."

Zoe smiled. "May I buy you a gla.s.s after I'm done?"

He bowed again. "Thank you for the offer, but, sadly, I find that at my age the grape gives me the heartburn."

He opened the blue curtain, said, "Good-bye, Katya Orlova's granddaughter," and disappeared behind it.

ZOE WAS SO excited now she was humming with it as she pushed open the casket's domed lid and looked inside. excited now she was humming with it as she pushed open the casket's domed lid and looked inside.

She saw something square, about the size and thickness of a hardback novel, wrapped tightly in a sealskin pouch. She lifted it out slowly, unwinding the thick, oily skin, and she gasped.

Inside the pouch was a Russian icon, and although her knowledge didn't run nearly as deep as her mother's, even she knew this one was exquisite and rare. And very old.

It was painted on a thick piece of wood, the image unlike anything she'd ever before seen. It filled her with both wonder and a supernatural fear. The Virgin Mary sat on a gilded throne with her hands folded around a silver cup fashioned in the shape of a human skull. But the Virgin's face ... Zoe couldn't stop staring at her face. It had been painted centuries ago, but it was the same face Zoe saw looking back at her in the mirror every day of her life.

She could see now how the old man knew Lena Orlova was a Keeper the moment he saw her in that noodle shop. She was the very image of the Lady. As are you She was the very image of the Lady. As are you. The thought gave Zoe chills.

Could this icon be the altar of bones? Certainly in centuries past, from superst.i.tious peasants to the powerful czars, it was believed some icons could heal and work miracles. But surely no one would buy into such a thing today-at least not enough to kill for it. The icon was priceless, though, like a buried treasure, and if a clerk in a convenience store could be shot over twenty bucks, Zoe supposed an old lady could die trying to protect the secret of an icon worth millions.

Suddenly the shop seemed quiet, too quiet. Except for the ticking of the clocks. Zoe opened her mouth to call out to the old man, then shut it. She felt felt alone. alone.

And she didn't like it.

She looked at the icon again. It was starting to creep her out now, how the Virgin had her face. The skull cup was creepy, too. The Virgin and her throne seemed to be floating on a lake. On one side of her was a waterfall, on the other something that looked like a jumble of rocks. And the painting had been studded with jewels, but it was odd the way they were laid out, as if the artist had stuck them on with no plan of either symmetry or logic. Except for the ruby, which he'd put right in the middle of the skull's forehead.

Ruby, sapphire, aquamarine, diamond, fire opal, iolite, onyx. Seven jewels, and no two of them the same. She didn't know enough to a.s.sess their quality, but the ruby was as big as her pinkie. The other stones were smaller, though.

She stared at the Virgin's face a moment longer, then wrapped the icon back up into its waterproof sealskin pouch and slipped it in her satchel. She was about to close the casket's lid when she saw something else inside. It must have been lying underneath the icon.

Not until she took it out, though, did she make sense of what it was-a round, gray tin can of the type that was used for storing reels of 8 mm film. And sure enough, that's what was inside it.

She unspooled the film a little and held it up to the light. She thought she could make out a little girl blowing out the candles of a birthday cake. She would need a projector to be sure, but she thought the little girl was her mother.

Zoe closed her eyes against the burn of sudden tears. To think this could be all Katya Orlova had left of the daughter she'd been forced to abandon when she'd gone on the run for her life. Why hadn't she just given up the icon? Zoe wondered. Surely no material thing, no matter how old and rare and valuable, was worth such a sacrifice.

Zoe put the reel of film in her satchel and stood up to go. Then she sat back down to check the casket one more time, to be sure it was empty. She ran her fingers over the bottom and sides and was only a little surprised when she exposed the corner of a photograph peeking out from a slit in the black satin lining.

She pulled the photograph out carefully, for it felt brittle to the touch. Oddly enough, though, it wasn't all that old.

It was of a man and two women, both blondes, sitting in the booth of a restaurant somewhere. Zoe recognized the woman on the left as her grandmother, and it looked as if it had been taken a year or so after the one in front of the studio gate, for in this one her hair was longer, worn in a soft bob just past her shoulders. Zoe was also sure she knew the woman sitting next to her grandmother, but she couldn't place her. The man in the photograph was extraordinarily handsome, with dark hair and a charming, bad-boy grin. He, too, looked familiar to Zoe, although much less so than the second blonde.

She turned the photograph over and saw writing on the back. Mike and Marilyn and me at the Brown Derby, July '62 Mike and Marilyn and me at the Brown Derby, July '62.

Marilyn ... Zoe turned the photograph over, looked at it closer. The other woman in the booth had most of her platinum blond hair wrapped up in a scarf and she had little makeup on, but she looked like ...

My G.o.d, it is. It's Marilyn Monroe.

Had her grandmother actually known Marilyn Monroe? Known her well enough to sit in a restaurant with her? But then she had had worked for a movie studio, after all.... Still, it just seemed so amazing. worked for a movie studio, after all.... Still, it just seemed so amazing.

Zoe put the photograph into the sealskin pouch with the icon and the reel of film and stuffed it all back into her bulging satchel, then sc.r.a.ped back her chair and stood up.

"Au revoir, monsieur," she called out. She got no answer. she called out. She got no answer.

But as she pulled back the purple curtain and opened the door to the courtyard, the front of the shop exploded into a symphony of gongs and chimes and tinkles and bells.

19.

ZOE WOULDN'T have known she was being followed if it hadn't been for the fire-eater. have known she was being followed if it hadn't been for the fire-eater.

She came out of the wine bar back onto the Boulevard St.-Michel, as the old man had promised. A juggler and a man with a burning torch stood in front of a sidewalk cafe on the corner. The juggler tossed a balloon, a billiard ball, and a bowling ball from hand to hand, and he'd drawn quite a crowd. Zoe watched the street performance without really seeing it, while she tried to think what to do. She needed a hotel and some food. She needed sleep.

At least for the moment it had stopped raining.

She thought she saw what looked like a hotel farther down the block on the other side of the museum. She'd taken about a dozen steps toward it when from behind she heard a loud "Ooooh!"

She whirled instinctively, to see the man with the torch pull it out of his mouth, then breathe a gust of fire, and the crowd went "Ooooh!" again.

Zoe's eye had caught a sudden movement farther down the street, though-a man jerking around too fast to look into the window of an umbrella store. His build was big and ropy, and he had a long brown ponytail, like the man who had attacked her with the chain in San Francisco.

She pretended to watch the fire-eater, while he admired the umbrellas. He didn't turn his face her way once, kept his attention right on those fascinating umbrellas no matter how many times the crowd oohed at the fire-eater's antics. He was the man who'd killed her grandmother, she was sure of it. He'd followed her from San Francisco, followed her to the museum and then to the shop, just as the old man had feared.

Zoe started walking again, just another tourist admiring the brightly lit bistros and shops, the cream stone buildings with their gray dormer roofs and lace iron balconies. She stopped at a newspaper kiosk and pointed to a copy of Le Monde Le Monde.

She dug into her jeans pocket for a couple of euros, then deliberately dropped them on the sidewalk. She bent over to pick them up, and as she straightened, she looked into the side mirror of a parked car.

The ponytailed man was only a half a block behind her now, closing fast.

The guy must've figured he was made because suddenly he gave up all subtlety, running full out now and right at her.

He got within a couple feet of her and made a wild grab for her satchel. She swung around, slamming her elbow under his chin, and sent him reeling into a parked car.

Then she gripped the straps of her satchel with both hands and ran.

SHE DASHED ACROSS the wide street just as the light was changing. Behind her she heard the screech of brakes, horns, curses in French. the wide street just as the light was changing. Behind her she heard the screech of brakes, horns, curses in French.

The shops, the cafes, they were all open, full of people. Maybe she should run inside one, shout for help, for a gendarme, but it would be a nightmare. She didn't speak French, and what could she tell them? The whole altar-of-bones thing sounded insane, and the icon ... What if they confiscated the icon? She was the Keeper now, she couldn't let them have the icon.

She glanced back over her shoulder. She'd put a little distance between herself and the ponytailed man, but he was still coming fast. She had to lose him, but how?

She ran faster, everything around her a blur of lights and faces. Couldn't they see a man was chasing her? Ahead of her she could see the bell tower of a church, thought about trying to hide inside, then changed her mind. She could just as easily end up trapped.

She twisted her head to s.n.a.t.c.h another look behind her and knocked into a hot-chestnut cart. She tripped, nearly fell onto her hands and knees. Pain shot up her thigh.

She stumbled around a corner and onto a narrow street jam-packed with an outdoor market and throngs of shoppers. She cut around a fish stand and nearly fell again when her heel slipped on a piece of rotting kelp. She wove in and out among the marble-topped tables of a salon de the salon de the, b.u.mping into them, not caring.

Her coat sleeve caught on the wheel of a wagon full of yellow flowers. She tugged, couldn't get loose, couldn't get loose ... She felt panic, hot and terrifying, blur her eyes. She gave one more hard tug, and her sleeve pulled free.

She looked behind her. Bobbing heads, so many heads, but she didn't see him. She turned back around just in time to keep from slamming into a woman pushing a baby carriage.

Suddenly he was there, lurching out from behind a rack of handbags. He was smiling at her and she'd never been so afraid in her life.

Zoe made a little juking move. He bit, twisting right while she went left. He lunged at her, grabbing for her satchel again. She dodged to the side at the last second, and his momentum carried him into a pyramid of oranges.

Zoe ran past him, leaped over rolling oranges, and darted in one door of a pastry shop, then out the other. She could hear a lot of yelling behind her, but she didn't look back.

ZOE RAN DOWN a street-no shops or cafes here, only a few people. Ahead she could see the lights of a bridge and a tourist boat below on the Seine. a street-no shops or cafes here, only a few people. Ahead she could see the lights of a bridge and a tourist boat below on the Seine.

The street that followed along the river was wide, the traffic murderous. She raced across it just as the light changed, setting off a flurry of horns, shaking fists, and more French curses.

I've lost him. Please, G.o.d, let me have lost him.

She slowed to a walk, panting, her heart pounding in her ears as she took a crowded footbridge. She looked downriver and finally saw something she knew-the ma.s.sive lit towers of the Notre Dame cathedral thrusting into the night sky.

The cathedral would, surely, be full of tourists and tourist buses. Maybe she could sneak onto a bus and ride it to a nice big hotel with a staff who spoke English. And room service. What she wouldn't give right now for some room service.

NOT ONLY WERE there no tourist buses, the big square in front of the cathedral was practically empty of people, too. there no tourist buses, the big square in front of the cathedral was practically empty of people, too.

The floodlights cast the side streets in deep black shadows. She felt exposed out in the open, in the light, but the dark streets leading to who knew where seemed worse. She hadn't lost him; she couldn't see him but her skin crawled with the feel of him. She strained her ears, listening, listening ...

Running footsteps slapped the pavement behind her.

Zoe ran.

THE STREET SHE ran down spilled onto another bridge. A large group of j.a.panese tourists was crossing over, coming toward her. Zoe plunged in among them. ran down spilled onto another bridge. A large group of j.a.panese tourists was crossing over, coming toward her. Zoe plunged in among them.

But she was too tall. She could still see the ponytailed man, and if she could see him, he could see her.

She wasn't going to escape him. Maybe she should just toss him the satchel and be done with it. But the letter ... they will kill you and all who come near you simply for knowing too much they will kill you and all who come near you simply for knowing too much. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had left his knife in her grandmother's chest, but he could also have a gun. Would he dare to use it on a Paris street? Probably.

A hand grabbed her arm, startling her so badly her heart jumped up into her throat. A smiling man got in her face, pointing to the camera he held in one hand. "Take picture?" he said. Zoe shook her head, tried to get around him.

She looked ahead of her, toward the other end of the bridge. Another man stood there, just stood there as if waiting. For her. He was dressed all in black and it was too dark to see his face, but she was so scared of him she wanted to vomit.

He took a step toward her, then another and another. He reached into his coat pocket and- A gun. He had a gun.

She looked over her shoulder. The ponytailed man moved through the oblivious j.a.panese tourists like a shark, smiling, closing in on her.

Zoe backed up until she was pressed against the wrought-iron railing. She was so afraid, so frozen with it, she couldn't think. Please, G.o.d, please, what am I going to do? Please, G.o.d, please, what am I going to do? The ponytailed man was coming from one end of the bridge, and the man in black was coming from the other, and she had no where to go but ... The ponytailed man was coming from one end of the bridge, and the man in black was coming from the other, and she had no where to go but ...

She looked down at the rushing, black, icy waters of the Seine. She was standing on a low bridge, and the water was running high, but it still looked like a long way down. Then she saw the bow of a barge, coming out from underneath the bridge, moving fast, with bound newspapers piled on it as high as a house.

Zoe didn't think, didn't hesitate. She grabbed the railing with both hands and vaulted over it. She hung by her fingertips for one long, agonizing second.

Then she let go.

SHE HIT THE bundles of newspapers hard, driving all the air from her lungs. bundles of newspapers hard, driving all the air from her lungs.

Finally her chest heaved and blessed air came rushing in. She lay there, shuddering, praying she hadn't broken anything, afraid to move and find out. Then she smiled. She'd jumped from a bridge and landed on sodden piles of Le Monde Le Monde, and she'd survived.

Maybe, just maybe, some toapotror toapotror magic was going on here. She still didn't move, though, even after it began raining hard, splashing her face, getting in her eyes, up her nose. She shifted one leg, then the other. Thank G.o.d her arms worked, too. She felt as if her chest had gone through her back, but nothing was broken, and she smiled again. magic was going on here. She still didn't move, though, even after it began raining hard, splashing her face, getting in her eyes, up her nose. She shifted one leg, then the other. Thank G.o.d her arms worked, too. She felt as if her chest had gone through her back, but nothing was broken, and she smiled again.

She sat up slowly and looked back up at the bridge, fading now into the distance, the rain veiling it, but she could still see the ponytailed man where he stood at the railing, looking down at the river. The man in black was gone.

I'm alive, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, I'm alive. The Keeper's alive and she's still got the icon.

Then her euphoria died as she saw the streets and buildings float past her. Where was the barge going? Would it stop even once before it got all the way to Le Havre?

The river flowed between quays, sheer and steep as cliffs. About every twenty yards, shallow steps carved into the stone laddered up to the street. But to get to them, that was the thing. The water whipped by, fast and cold and treacherous. She had a horrible feeling she'd used up her share of luck.