She struggled one-handed with the pick, poking it into the cuff's lock, jiggling it, poking, jiggling.... It wasn't going to work and the d.a.m.n clock was ticking louder than a drum now, louder than the pounding in her head- The lock on the cuff snicked open.

Her nerves were screaming at her, Hurry, hurry, hurry Hurry, hurry, hurry. She jumped off the bed, and the floor tilted beneath her feet. Her muscles felt as mushy as overcooked spaghetti, her head throbbed.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the film and stuffed it back in her satchel. The icon and the postcard with the riddle were still there, wrapped up in the sealskin pouch, but oddly the Marilyn Monroe photograph was gone. She checked her money, pa.s.sport, and credit cards-all still there.

She was about to run out of the apartment when she suddenly realized that all she was wearing was her bra and panties. All this time she'd been half-naked, she thought, laughing out loud, and she hadn't even noticed.

She found her leather jacket, boots, and socks next to the radiator, her jeans and sweater hanging over the towel bar in the bathroom. They were damp and clammy and smelled of the river, and she shuddered as she put them on.

Something was in her jeans back pocket ... two soggy sheets of-Oh, please, G.o.d, no ... But it was. Her grandmother's letter. ... But it was. Her grandmother's letter.

Sudden tears burned her eyes, her chest ached. She must have stuck the letter into her back pocket when she'd left the museum, and then she'd gone and jumped in the Seine. Her grandmother's words were gone now, just smears of blue ink and- Downstairs a door slammed, and she froze. Then she heard footsteps walking away out on the sidewalk and she let out a long, slow breath. She put her grandmother's letter into her satchel, even though it was ruined now, and headed for the door.

SHE WALKED INTO the first bank she came to and rented a safe-deposit box. She wanted to put the icon and the film where no one could get at them. the first bank she came to and rented a safe-deposit box. She wanted to put the icon and the film where no one could get at them.

While she was in the room with the safe-deposit box, she started to enter into her PDA the parts of her grandmother's letter she could remember, but then it occurred to her that the battery might run out before she could recharge it, so she wrote it all down on a piece of the bank's notepaper instead.

She left the bank with her satchel feeling a thousand pounds lighter. A trendy boutique blasted throbbing hip-hop music next door. She went inside and bought another pair of black jeans, a black wool turtleneck, some more underwear, and finally a new, trendier black leather jacket that was going to put a serious dent in her bank account.

The clerk was young, and friendly, and wanted to practice her English. Zoe asked her where she could get a taxi to take her to the Musee de Cluny.

Now that she was thinking again, she realized she should go back to the griffin shop and talk with Boris some more. He'd recognized Lena as a Keeper the first time they met because of her resemblance to the Lady. Surely there was some history, some more folklore, to go with the icon that he could tell her.

ZOE ASKED THE cabdriver to let her out across from the museum. But when she rounded the corner of the little side street, she was shocked to see a crowd gathered in front of the old man's shop, along with an ambulance and two cop cars with whirling red bubble lights. cabdriver to let her out across from the museum. But when she rounded the corner of the little side street, she was shocked to see a crowd gathered in front of the old man's shop, along with an ambulance and two cop cars with whirling red bubble lights.

She pushed through the crowd, her heart pounding slow, dull beats. Please don't let him be dead. Please don't let him be dead Please don't let him be dead. Please don't let him be dead.

She wedged herself between a young couple, and a man wearing a stained butcher's ap.r.o.n, just as the door to the shop opened and two EMTs in white smocks came out carrying a body bag on a stretcher. She heard the young man say in English to his girl, "One of the cops just said the guy's eye was cut out."

The ground lurched beneath Zoe's feet, and she almost fell. She spun around, hot bile rising in her throat. She put a hand up to her mouth and pushed back through the crowd.

Oh G.o.d, oh G.o.d. This was all her fault. She must have led the pony-tailed man right to the griffin shop yesterday, and now he'd killed the old man. But not before cutting out his eye, and there'd been no reason to do that. Boris didn't have the icon anymore, and he had no way of knowing where it was.

She wove blindly down the jostling sidewalks, not knowing or caring where she went. Once she almost stepped off the curb and into the path of a bus.

She pa.s.sed a huge multiplex movie theater and thought about losing herself inside, yet she walked on. She needed to find a hotel, a place with a shower and a bed. A place to lie low and think about what to do.

She found one that looked promising off one of the narrower side streets. It had a threadbare carpet and a half-dead palm tree in the lobby-definitely not a hotel you'd expect American tourists to flock to.

The man behind the front desk had a pathetic mustache and a snooty nose. He claimed to have only one vacancy, a small room on the top floor, facing the street and with only a shower, no bathtub. Was madame madame sure ...? sure ...?

Madame was sure. was sure.

The elevator was smaller than a phone booth. Madame Madame took the stairs. took the stairs.

NOT UNTIL SHE sat down on the bed did she realize how badly her legs were shaking. She was hungry, but she was afraid if she tried to eat now, she'd be sick. She couldn't get the image of that body bag out of her head. sat down on the bed did she realize how badly her legs were shaking. She was hungry, but she was afraid if she tried to eat now, she'd be sick. She couldn't get the image of that body bag out of her head.

She curled up in a ball on the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest. She knew she ought to go to the French police and tell them about the ponytailed man, but she was afraid they would make her turn over the icon and the film because those things came from what was now a crime scene. She could even become a suspect herself, and she hadn't heard very nice things about Parisian jails.

She lay there for a while, until hunger pangs penetrated her numb brain and she could smell the river on herself. She wanted to stay on the bed, curled up in a ball, but she made herself get up, shower, and change into her new clothes.

She left her ruined things in the hotel, but brought everything else along with her in her satchel. She took a table at the first cafe she came to, sat beneath a green-and-gold awning, and ordered a salade Nicoise salade Nicoise and a bottle of Evian. and a bottle of Evian.

She knew she needed to make herself think, but she sat there, numb, still cold and feeling so very alone. A big old stone church was across the street. She wondered if churches still offered sanctuary for the hunted. The streets around her were jammed with cars and people, and she watched the bustle while she wolfed down the salad and half a loaf of bread. There were supposed to be over 2 million people in Paris. She could lose herself among so many, surely.

Except you couldn't make a move in today's world without leaving a trail of numbers. Credit card, pa.s.sport, driver's license, Social Security. Even her library card had a bar code and a number. If Mr. Ponytail had a source in the French police, he might already be waiting for her back at her hotel. Sergei, as one of her mother's enforcers, would be even quicker to find her, with contacts in the Russian mafiya mafiya, whose tentacles reached into every major city government throughout the world.

A shadow fell over her table.

22.

IT WAS a woman, a stranger. Okay, a beautiful woman in a to-die-for red designer suit, and because they'd made eye contact, Zoe smiled at her, then scooted her chair closer to the table, thinking the woman wanted to squeeze by. Instead she pulled back the chair opposite Zoe and sat down. a woman, a stranger. Okay, a beautiful woman in a to-die-for red designer suit, and because they'd made eye contact, Zoe smiled at her, then scooted her chair closer to the table, thinking the woman wanted to squeeze by. Instead she pulled back the chair opposite Zoe and sat down.

"Ms. Dmitroff-no, don't pop up like a jack-in-the-box, for heaven's sake. That's the last thing you want to do right now." The woman placed a black leather Chanel bag on the table, folded her hands on top of it, looked carefully around her, then leaned in close. "After all, we don't know who else might be watching."

The woman looked all around her again, then opened the Chanel bag, pulled out a matching wallet, and flipped it open long enough to flash some sort of laminated ID card with her picture and a government seal on it.

"My name is Yasmine Poole. I'm an operative with the Central Intelligence Agency."

Zoe snorted, because all this nightmare needed right now to make it complete was the CIA. "And I'm Batgirl. Sorry, I'm afraid I left my decoder ring back at the hotel."

"Oh, puh-leeze, Ms. Dmitroff. You're intelligent enough to know that not all secret agents run around on Jet Skis and flying motorboats like James Bond, saving the world from master villains. I've worked for the Agency for over ten years, yet most days you will find me sitting behind a desk at Langley a.n.a.lyzing what affect a half-a-tael rise on the price of rice in Mongolia will have on the world's economy."

She smiled, Zoe didn't smile back.

"Most days," Zoe said, "you would find me on the phone in my cubbyhole of a Mission Street law office, trying to wrangle a plea bargain out of an ADA who thinks defense attorneys rank somewhere below pond sc.u.m. Yet here I am and here you are-so how did that happen?"

"I followed you just now from your hotel. We had you located fifteen minutes after the man at the front desk ran your credit card."

"I guess it's nice to have a fancy badge. Beats a decoder ring any day of the week." Zoe finished the last of her water and patted her mouth with her napkin. "So what do you want with me?"

"This is going to sound all melodramatic and surreal to you, but we believe a certain item has fallen into your possession which could have grave consequences on national security. It's vital that you turn the item over to me now, before it falls into the wrong hands."

Zoe's mouth had gone dry, even though she'd expected something like this. From here on out she was going to have to be careful. Somehow she was going to have to get as much information as possible out of this woman without revealing her own ignorance. For as her grandmother had warned her, ignorance was a poor shield against danger.

"I'm in possession of a lot of 'items,' "Zoe said. "You'll have to be more specific."

Yasmine Poole-if that was her real name-pursed her very red lips as if she'd just kissed a lemon. "A film. A reel of eight-millimeter film, to be exact. Don't waste time denying you have it, Ms. Dmitroff. We both know better."

The film again, not the icon. What was it about that d.a.m.n film?"

Wow, I've got a home movie of a little girl's birthday party. Our nation is in peril. Arrest me now."

Yasmine Poole's beautiful face turned hard. "Pretending to be stupid isn't something I would recommend, given the circ.u.mstances. Because I can can arrest you, and Guantanamo Bay really sucks. Trust me on that." arrest you, and Guantanamo Bay really sucks. Trust me on that."

Zoe said nothing, and the woman took her silence for some sort of surrender. "Your country really would be grateful for your cooperation in this, Ms. Dmitroff, because there are others who will stop at nothing to get their hands on that film, and they are not nice people. Not nice at all."

Yasmine Poole opened her bag again, removed a photograph, and held it out to Zoe. "Have you ever seen this man before?"

The photograph was of a man standing next to a wrought-iron lamppost on a snowy, cobblestoned street. He looked to be in his midforties, and he was extraordinarily handsome, with intense, hooded eyes, flaring cheekbones, and an aristocratic nose.

"His name is Nikolai Popov," the woman said. "He was a very senior echelon officer in the KGB during the Cold War, a vicious, ruthless man, responsible for too many deaths to count. He's long retired, of course, enjoying his Crimean dacha. We figure he's got to be in his nineties now, but his power and influence hasn't waned."

"And you think he's after the film?"

"Zoe ... Can I call you Zoe? He's had his agents out trying to track it down for years."

"Why? What's in it for him?"

Yasmine Poole pursed her lips again. "Oh, dear. See, I knew you would ask me that. Unfortunately the answer is cla.s.sified. Top secret, and all that."

Zoe looked down at the photograph one last time, then handed it back to the woman who called herself Yasmine Poole. Zoe didn't trust her as far as she cold spit. Somehow, she needed to find a way to look at the film, because it obviously had something more on it than just a little girl's birthday party.

She gave Yasmine Poole the earnest look she used on juries. "I just want to do the right thing."

The woman patted her hand. "Of course you do."

"Only I don't have it with me anymore."

"I know that, Zoe," Yasmine Poole said, and again Zoe heard that tinge of malice in her voice. "I searched your hotel room and your possessions while you were showering. You've obviously put it somewhere you think it's safe. Just tell me where, and I'll be out of your life. Then you can enjoy the rest of your vacation in this beautiful city. You don't look like the club-hopping type, but there's always an art fair at the Grand Palais this time of year."

Laughter, coming from the next table, distracted Zoe. She looked over and saw a couple, dressed in matching hooded sweatshirts, holding hands between two steaming cups of espresso.

When she looked around again, the b.u.t.t of a Glock was protruding out of the expensive designer handbag. "You see, I really didn't want to go to a bad place where there are guns and threats of violence," Yasmine Poole said. "But you made me. Hand over the film, Zoe, or I'll be forced to play hardball, and you really don't want that. Trust me."

"I'm not being deliberately obstinate, Ms. Poole. I put the film in a safe-deposit box. So I'm afraid you'll need my signature in order to get at it."

Yasmine Poole stood up. She shut her handbag, slipped its strap over her arm, and tugged at the bottom of her suit jacket. "Then let's do it."

"The bank is by the opera house," Zoe lied. She hadn't a clue where the opera house was, but she figured Paris had to have one and she was gambling that it wasn't right around the corner. "We'll have to take the metro."

"Honey, I'm really not the metro type. And I have a nice expense account. We'll take a taxi."

"Sorry, but the only way I can find it is to retrace my steps from this morning, and this morning I took the metro."

Yasmine Poole really didn't look at all happy about this, but she followed Zoe across the street and down into a subway station next to the big old stone church. It was the tail end of the midday rush hour, so the platform was crowded. But the woman stuck to Zoe like an African river leech.

The train pulled in and they got on together. Yasmine Poole started to take a seat, but she stopped when she realized Zoe had stayed by the door. "We transfer at the next stop," Zoe said.

Yasmine Poole nodded, but Zoe saw that she was checking out the route painted on the wall of the car.

Zoe counted off the seconds as more pa.s.sengers squeezed on.

Yasmine Poole pointed to the map. "If the bank is near the Place de la Bastille, then shouldn't we be on the Porte d'Orleans train? Or were you talking about the old opera house. Still-"

Zoe widened her eyes. "Oh, my G.o.d, it's that man again. The man who killed my grandmother."

Yasmine Poole's head whipped around. "Who? Where?"

"There." Zoe pointed. Then she jumped off the train just as the door slid shut.

Yasmine Poole whirled back again, but it was too late. She pounded her fist on the door, tried to pry it open with her fingers, but the train was already moving.

Zoe waved bye-bye to the woman's furious face as the train pulled away from the platform, gathering speed and disappearing into the black tunnel.

SHE TOOK THE steps back up to the street at a run. She figured she had fifteen minutes to disappear in the crowded Parisian streets before Yasmine Poole could double back. Unless the woman had an accomplice she was in touch with by cell phone. In which case Zoe was dead meat. steps back up to the street at a run. She figured she had fifteen minutes to disappear in the crowded Parisian streets before Yasmine Poole could double back. Unless the woman had an accomplice she was in touch with by cell phone. In which case Zoe was dead meat.

She shot out of the metro station at a run and slammed into a man's chest so hard she nearly knocked herself over. He grabbed her arms to steady her. She didn't even have to look up; she knew who it was.

There were over 2 million people in Paris, so how come she was so easy to find?

"Come on," said Sergei. He kept hold of her left arm, leading her toward the big stone church. "Let us pray."

HE TOOK HER to a pew tucked away in a corner behind a marble column, next to a wooden confessional box. to a pew tucked away in a corner behind a marble column, next to a wooden confessional box.

They sat down side by side. Zoe said, "Fancy meeting you again so soon, Sergei."

He said nothing, just reached in his pocket. She half-expected him to pull out a gun.

He pulled out a wallet and flipped it open to show a gold shield that glittered even in the dim light. "My name isn't Sergei. It's Ry O'Malley. I'm an undercover agent for the DEA."

Zoe laughed, although she thought she sounded hysterical even to her own ears. "That woman who called herself Yasmine Poole flashed a CIA badge at me. And now you with the ..." She peered closer at the gold shield. "Ryland O'Malley. The Drug Enforcement Administration. For all I know you could both be fakes."

"Sometimes you got to go with your instincts on who to trust."

"And in what universe would my instincts be telling me to trust you?"

"I think you know you should at least listen to what I have to say."

"Okay, then you can start by telling me how you found me so easily. Do I have a tracking device planted on me somewhere?"

A corner of his hard mouth actually twitched in a smile. "When a person's being hunted and that person is an amateur, they run to ground in a place that's familiar to them. I figured you'd eventually go back to the shop across from the museum where you first picked up the film. And, sure enough, you showed up there just about the time they were carrying out the body."

Zoe hadn't been able to cry earlier over the old man's death, but now tears suddenly flooded her eyes and she had to look away. "Do you have to say it like that, like it's just another day on the job? His name was Boris, and he was sweet, and the ponytailed man cut out his eye."

Sergei, or Ry, or whatever his name was, said nothing.

"Maybe you were there, too. Maybe you helped him do it."

"You don't believe that."

She leaned back so she could study him again, from head to toe. "You really aren't a true vors vors, are you? In spite of your gutter Russian and that tattoo you've got on your arm."