She was trying to think what to make of that when he said, "We're almost there."

Zoe looked out the window. The streetlights were few and far between, but she could make out a quaint, old-fashioned tobacco shop complete with a wooden Indian in front, a tailor shop with a nude mannequin in the window, and a ramshackle garage. This was a poorer neighborhood than any she'd yet seen, the buildings lopsided and grimed with the soot of centuries.

"So where is 'there'?" she asked, just as they turned the corner onto an even narrower side street and rolled to a stop.

Ry leaned into her, and this time she was sure he smiled. "Come with me," he said in a really bad Pepe Le Pew imitation, "to the casbah."

28.

IT WAS the casbah. Literally, in the sense that the casbah. Literally, in the sense that THE CASBAH THE CASBAH was written in purple neon script above the front door. was written in purple neon script above the front door.

It was a theme nightclub, Zoe supposed, and the theme was glaringly obvious. The building was built like a mosque, decorated with Moorish-like tiles and mosaics. It had no windows, just an iron-banded wooden door framed on each side by a pair of green neon palm trees.

The door had no handle that Zoe could see, just a grilled spy hole set dead center and at eye level. Ry pressed a buzzer, and a moment later the spy hole shot open, then closed.

Then the door itself was flung wide, and Zoe expected to see a guy in a fez or maybe a belly dancer in harem pants. But instead a woman of a "certain age" stepped across the threshold and into the green light cast by the neon palms. She looked straight out of the 1930s, a chanteuse with straight, bobbed black hair and dramatic cheekbones, a black pencil skirt, a red silk blouse, and a long ivory cigarette holder pinched delicately between two fingers.

"Rylushka?" she said, in Russian roughened by too much bad vodka. "I do not see or hear from you in two years, now suddenly you are banging on my door? You must be in big, bad trouble."

"BUT THEN WHEN are you not in trouble?" the woman said, switching to English so thick Zoe was afraid she would choke on it. She held up the hand with the cigarette before Ry could answer. "No, better to say nothing, are you not in trouble?" the woman said, switching to English so thick Zoe was afraid she would choke on it. She held up the hand with the cigarette before Ry could answer. "No, better to say nothing, lapushka lapushka, tell me nothing. That way I can keep my-what is it you Americans call it? My 'plausible deniability.' "

"We thought we'd drop by for supper," Ry said, and turned to Zoe. "Madame Blotski makes the best borscht west of the Urals."

"He lies." The woman smiled at Zoe, but the dark eyes narrowed and looked her up and down, as if sizing up a potential rival. "I cannot even boil a potato without burning it. But there is always the takeout, no? So come in, come in." She stepped aside and waved the cigarette at the open door. "But no Madame Madame Blotski. You must call me Anya." Blotski. You must call me Anya."

"Ochen priatna. Nice to meet you. I'm Zoe-"

"Nyet, nyet. Say no more. Plausible deniability, remember? How nice, though, that you speak Russian. And how polite of you to let me know of this accomplishment, before I gave myself the red face by letting slip a little insult here, a little indiscretion there, thinking you were-what is the word you Americans say? Clueless. Rylushka, wherever did you find this girl?"

"I fished her out of the Seine."

"Hunh. You make the little joke. Still, she does have the look of the drowned krysa krysa about her. Never mind, I have bathing facilities, and for that she should be thankful. And for why are we all still out here on the stoop? What if someone is to see you and starts to shoot?" about her. Never mind, I have bathing facilities, and for that she should be thankful. And for why are we all still out here on the stoop? What if someone is to see you and starts to shoot?"

Zoe looked nervously up and down the street. She didn't want to bring trouble down on this woman. "Thank you, Madame Blotski, but maybe we should-"

"Anya," Ry cut in, "likes to pretend she is living inside a John Le Carre novel. If you told her we had the KGB hot on our trail, it would make her day."

Madame Blotski laughed. "Listen to yourself, Rylushka. It is you who must always be playing at the good guys, bad guys."

Zoe looked at Ry. Earlier, when she'd woken up thickheaded and nauseated after he'd shot her with that tranq gun, she'd thought he was one of the bad guys. She didn't think that anymore, but she knew there were still a lot of things he wasn't telling her.

Then again, she hadn't told him everything either. Remember, trust no one. No one Remember, trust no one. No one, her grandmother had warned. Zoe had been the Keeper for barely forty-eight hours, and already she was contemplating breaking rule number one.

Anya Blotski was laughing as she took Ry's arm and pulled him inside, leaving Zoe to follow. Anya leaned into him and her breast brushed his arm. A clue, Zoe thought, as bright as the neon palms outside the front door, that the two of them had a history, and she smiled to herself at the thought.

ZOE LOOKED AROUND at the potted palms, art deco stenciling, and the gilt on the cobalt blue walls and thought Humphrey Bogart would have felt right at home. at the potted palms, art deco stenciling, and the gilt on the cobalt blue walls and thought Humphrey Bogart would have felt right at home.

They wended their way through wicker chairs and small, round tables with crisp, white cloths, each table with its own little red-shaded lamp and onyx ashtray. Then crossed a small parquet dance floor in front of a slightly raised stage that was already set up for a jazz band, with the instruments out of their cases, the sheet music on the stands. Zoe didn't see any musicians, though; in fact there wasn't a soul in the place. But then it was early; things probably didn't get hopping here until after midnight.

Anya Blotski led them through a swinging door in the back, down a short hall to another door, which she opened with a key. "This is the singer's dressing room, but since I am the singer, I say you may use it. Please to make yourselves at home. That chest over there is really a refrigerator-clever, no? And there is vodka inside. Meanwhile, I go send for takeout." She brushed Zoe's cheek with a cool, dry hand. "Poor darling. You looked half-starved and blue with the cold." Then Anya left on a cloud of Opium perfume.

The dressing room reeked of it. In here, Zoe saw, the decor was faux Turkish harem. The wooden floor was laid with overlapping Turkish rugs, the mirror above the dressing table was gilded, and there was a chaise longue loaded with beaded, fringed pillows. A samovar burbled on a nearby table.

"I should be doing the dance of the seven veils," Zoe said.

Ry came up to her and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You okay? You looked really wiped."

She smiled, but she took a step back. She'd felt his touch all the way to her toes, and she didn't want to go there. She'd be a fool to go there.

"Apart from my insides feeling scrambled for an omelet, I'm fine. Only next time you go to steal us a getaway vehicle, would you mind staying away from the pizza bikes?"

His eyes crinkled up at the corners. "I could go for something cla.s.sy, like a Beamer."

"As long as it's not silver. If I see another silver Beamer, I might just jump back into the Seine."

"Isn't your mother's Beamer silver?"

"Thank you for making my point."

He laughed as he went to the table with the samovar. She watched him pour tea into a pair of tall, curved Russian gla.s.ses, then place two sugar cubes on the little lips meant for that purpose. How did a guy named O'Malley come to speak better Russian than she did? And he'd played the part of a vor vor so well, he'd even fooled her mother, a so well, he'd even fooled her mother, a pakhan pakhan in the Russian mafia. No way could he have picked that up in DEA school. There was simply too much she didn't know about him-she'd be nuts to trust him. Okay, so he'd saved her b.u.t.t multiple times today, but still ... in the Russian mafia. No way could he have picked that up in DEA school. There was simply too much she didn't know about him-she'd be nuts to trust him. Okay, so he'd saved her b.u.t.t multiple times today, but still ...

She walked to the chaise and collapsed. The strap of her satchel cut into her shoulder. Her eyes felt gritty, and every bone in her body felt pulverized. Her stomach was now so empty, its growls were echoing.

She ran her fingers through her hair and they came away sticky. She couldn't for the life of her ... Then she remembered the wedding cake Ry had plowed into on their mad dash through the streets of Paris.

Ry turned around with the tea gla.s.ses in his hand and must have caught her smiling because he said, "What? You're sitting there grinning like an idiot."

She laughed. "I was remembering the looks on those two guys' faces when you drove through their wedding cake. That was some wild ride you took me on, O'Malley. I thought-"

She was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Madame Blotski came in bearing a tray with silverware, gla.s.ses, and a half dozen white takeout cartons.

"From Igor's deli," the woman said. "We have chicken tabaka tabaka and pickled cabbage, and and pickled cabbage, and kotleta kotleta, which he promised to me is stuffed with lamb, not horse, so you need not to worry. The bread is pumpernickel. You like?"

"We do," Ry said. "Spasibo." "Spasibo."

Zoe's mouth was suddenly so full of water, she was afraid she'd actually start drooling. "It smells wonderful. Spasibo Spasibo."

"You are most welcome. And, please, help yourselves to the vodka." The woman set the tray on the chest that doubled as a refrigerator, brushed Ry's cheek this time, and said, "Eat, eat. Meanwhile, I take hint you are too polite to give me and give you kids some privacy."

Zoe waited until the door had shut behind her, then she looked at Ry and they shared a smile. "Us 'kids'? What is is this place, anyway?" this place, anyway?"

"The Casbah? It's a nightclub that was started by some White Russian emigres way back before World War Two, although it's changed hands several times since then, obviously. Anya was a singer in a Moscow nightclub when the Soviet Union collapsed. She emigrated here and bought this place."

Probably with a little mafiya mafiya seed money, Zoe thought, but she was too hungry to pursue the subject, even if it were any of her business. As she started to reach for a steaming carton that smelled of potato soup, she caught sight of the condition of her hands and shuddered. seed money, Zoe thought, but she was too hungry to pursue the subject, even if it were any of her business. As she started to reach for a steaming carton that smelled of potato soup, she caught sight of the condition of her hands and shuddered.

AS Z ZOE CAME out of the bathroom, she saw that Ry had his back to her and was talking on his cell phone. She heard him say, "Yes, out of the bathroom, she saw that Ry had his back to her and was talking on his cell phone. She heard him say, "Yes, pakhan pakhan. No, pakhan pakhan," before he flipped the phone closed.

"You were talking to my mother," she said, suddenly feeling so sick that if she'd had any food in her stomach, she would have vomited.

Ry turned to face her, tucking the phone into his back pocket. "She thinks I'm working for her, remember? If I don't check in every day, she's going to get suspicious."

"What-" Zoe's voice broke, and she had to clear her throat. "What did you tell her?"

"That some guy tried to kill you last night, but I saved your life and now you trust me."

"Is that what you think? That I trust you now?"

"I don't know, Zoe. You tell me." He heaved a sigh, thrusting his fingers through his hair. "Look, we need to talk."

"I'd rather eat."

"We'll talk, then we'll eat. You need to sit down, though. You look dead on your feet."

Zoe could feel her anger and mistrust slipping away. She was almost too tired to care anymore, and besides, he was right about Anna Larina. Her mother was going to get suspicious if he didn't call in.

She went over to the chaise while he pulled up a chair whose arms were carved to look like serpents and sat down facing her.

"Tell me about the altar of bones," he said.

Zoe said nothing, just looked at him. His face was tight with strain and fatigue, but then he'd been the one whipping the motorbike in and out through cutthroat traffic, flower markets, and shopping galleries, while she'd just been along for the ride. And he'd gotten even less sleep last night than she had. She remembered him talking about having to hold her propped up under hot water so she wouldn't die from hypothermia.

"I was thinking maybe we could arm wrestle to see who has to go first," she said.

He blinked, looked at her dumbfounded a moment, then laughed. "You are the wackiest woman I've ever met in my life."

"Wacky? All the adjectives in the world you have to pick from and you go for All the adjectives in the world you have to pick from and you go for wacky wacky? What's wrong with gorgeous, brilliant, charming, s.e.xy gorgeous, brilliant, charming, s.e.xy?"

"Vain?"

He did that squinting thing with his eyes that was his version of a smile, and she couldn't help smiling back at him. "Oh, all right. If you're going to laugh at me and call me names, I guess I'll go first."

She drew in a deep breath, shutting her eyes for a moment. She prayed she was not making a terrible mistake and plunged in. "It started with my grandmother getting murdered in Golden Gate Park."

She told him about Mackey coming to her because her grandmother had tried to swallow the piece of paper with her name and address before she died. About the photograph, and her grandmother's dying words to the man in the park, and the whole nightmare scene with her mother.

"The first I'd ever heard of the altar of bones was when Mackey brought it up. I mentioned it to my mother as kind of a parting shot, and she was so careful not to react that she gave herself away by not reacting. Do you think she also knows about the film?"

"It's possible, but I don't think so. What she wants is your icon. I didn't tell you all of the truth before. Your mother did send me after you for your protection, because she thought you could be in danger. But she also told me that if you got hold of an icon, I was supposed to seduce you and steal it from you."

Zoe felt her face grow hot. "You weren't really going to ..."

He leaned over and took her hands, and she hadn't realized until then that she had them clenched into a fist in her lap. Or how cold to the bone they were.

"I'm on your side in this, Zoe. I always have been."

His hands were big and hard, his palms calloused, yet their touch was gentle. She started to lean into him, then pulled away fast and reached for her tea.

"I'm thinking we could use something stronger," Ry said, getting up and going to the refrigerator.

Zoe blew out a big breath. "Boy, could I ever.... So, anyway, after that typically aggravating conversation with Anna Larina, I went to the morgue to see my grandmother's body. I had to see see her, you know, to make her real to me. Then when I left, I got attacked the first time by the ponytailed man. He wants the altar-of-bones thing so bad, Ry, he was willing to cut out my eye to get it out of me." her, you know, to make her real to me. Then when I left, I got attacked the first time by the ponytailed man. He wants the altar-of-bones thing so bad, Ry, he was willing to cut out my eye to get it out of me."

While Ry poured them gla.s.ses of vodka from out of the bottle in the refrigerator, she told him about how she got away from her attacker, and then came home to find her grandmother's package, with the key and the postcard, and a letter full of warning and mystery.

She stopped to take a big swig of the vodka, shuddered hard as it burned all the way to her toes and made her eyes water. "And that's how she led me to the old man in the griffin shop, where I picked up the film and the icon, and it's been one d.a.m.n thing after another since then, pardon my French."

"I didn't see any letter when I went through your bag," Ry said. "Sorry about that, by the way, but-"

She waved a hand, slopping vodka onto her wrist, which she licked off not to be wasteful. "Bygones, as Yasmine Poole would say. You were after the Kennedy film, which is totally understandable, given ... Well, we'll go down that road later. The letter was in my pocket when I jumped into the Seine, and it ended up a soggy, illegible mess, but I'd read it so many times that a lot of it was carved into my brain cells. I wrote what I could remember down on the bank's stationery."

She dug the notepaper out of her satchel and handed it to him. He read it through, sat in silence a moment, then said, "Okay, so you're the Keeper of this altar of bones, but it's so dangerous your grandmother didn't want to risk giving you the details in the letter, in case it fell into the wrong hands, so she gave you a postcard with a riddle on it and a key-"

"Which opened a chest that had the icon, the Marilyn Monroe photograph, and the film of your ... the Kennedy film."

"You don't need to keeping tiptoeing around the subject, Zoe. I've come to terms with the reality that there really was a second shooter on the gra.s.sy knoll and the son of a b.i.t.c.h was my father."

Not hardly, Zoe thought, since your face closes up tight as a fist every time we do tiptoe around the subject since your face closes up tight as a fist every time we do tiptoe around the subject, but she said, "Right. Sorry."

She watched him prowl the small dressing room, then he startled her by whirling around. He looked hard and mean and deadly, and Zoe stiffened as he came at her.

"Let me see the icon again." Then he added, "Please," no doubt because of the look on her face.

Zoe took the sealskin case out of her satchel, unwrapped the icon carefully, then gave it to Ry. He sat back down in the serpent chair to study it, turning it over in his hands.

Seeing it again, Zoe was struck by how exquisite and rare the icon was. The jewel colors of the oil paints looked as bright as if they had been applied only yesterday. And the facets of the real jewels twinkled in the lamplight like crystal tears.

"It's uncanny how much you look like her," Ry said.

"I'm not the expert my mother is, but I'm pretty sure it's at least four hundred years old."

"Did they always paint them on blocks of wood this thick?"

"Most of the time."

He hefted the icon in his hand. "It's thick enough that it could be hollowed out on the inside."

Zoe jumped up and leaned over him for a better look. "Hollowed out to hide something else, you mean? Like a set of Russian nesting dolls, where one fits inside the other?"

He shook the icon gently, but there was no rattle. He turned it over in his hands again, and they both searched for a seam or a hinge, first on the back and then on each side, but they found nothing. The wood looked and felt solid.

Ry said, "Okay, so it was just a thought. But if this thing's as old as it looks, and if these stones are real, it's got to be worth some big bucks. Maybe it's nothing more complicated than that-a valuable artifact some unscrupulous collectors are trying to get their hands on. Like your mother for one."

"But there's also the riddle Katya wrote on the back of the postcard," Zoe said, reaching back on the chaise for her satchel. "I thought at first it had something to do with The Lady and the Unicorn The Lady and the Unicorn, but that whole tapestry thing was just a way to get me to the griffin shop. What if this riddle is a clue to the altar of bones? What the altar is maybe. Or where it is."