THEIR N NAMES were Eric and Edward, and Joanna had never seen such perfect men. At age twenty-four, they were seemingly flawless specimens of the human male. Both were five foot eleven and weighed exactly the same, one hundred and sixty-seven pounds. were Eric and Edward, and Joanna had never seen such perfect men. At age twenty-four, they were seemingly flawless specimens of the human male. Both were five foot eleven and weighed exactly the same, one hundred and sixty-seven pounds.

She'd first seen them early in the afternoon when she'd been working with Elton Lybarger in the shallow end of the indoor pool in the building that housed the gymnasium on his estate. The pool was Olympic size, fifty meters long and twenty-five yards wide. Eric and Edward were doing butterfly stroke speed laps. Joanna had seen that before but usually only over short distances because the stroke itself was so demanding. At one end of the pool was an automatic lap meter that counted the number of laps whoever was in the pool was swimming.

When Joanna and Lybarger had come in, the boys had already swum eight laps, or a half mile. By the time she and Lybarger were finished, they were still swimming butterfly, stroke for stroke, side by side. The lap meter read sixty-two, exactly two laps under four miles. Four miles of butterfly stroke nonstop? That was incredible, if not impossible. But there was no doubt, because she'd witnessed it.

An hour later, as a male attendant took Lybarger off for an exercise in diction therapy, Eric and Edward had come out of the pool house and were preparing for a run through the forest, when Von Holden introduced them to her.

"Mr. Lybarger's nephews," he said with a smile. "They were studying at East Germany's College for Physical Culture until it closed after unification. So they came home."

Both were extremely polite, had said, "Hello. Very pleased to meet you," and then they'd run off.

Joanna had wondered if they were training for the Olympics and Von Holden had smiled. "No. Not Olympics. Politics! Mr. Lybarger has encouraged them in that since their youth when their own father died. He thought then that Germany would one day reunite. And he was correct."

"Germany? I thought Mr. Lybarger was Swiss."

"German. He was born in the industrial town of Essen."

At precisely seven o'clock, family and guests sat down to dinner in the formal dining room of the Lybarger estate, which Joanna had learned was called "Anlegeplatz," embarkation point. Meaning that from there one might leave but would always return.

Joanna had come back to her room after an extended workout with Mr. Lybarger to find a formal dinner gown, picked out and fitted flawlessly, simply from a photograph of her, by the famous designer Uta Baur, to whom she'd been introduced briefly on the lake steamer the night before and who, it turned out, was a guest at Anlegeplatz. The dress was long, tight-fitting; and instead of compromising her ample figure, it complemented it by tightening and accenting. Designed to be worn without undergarments, thereby avoiding a line or bulge caused by tight elastic, it was deliberately risque and elegantly erotic.

Black velvet, it closed several inches below the throat and had a woven, feathery pattern in gold that ran from the back of her neck across her bosom and down the other side, as if it were some kind of sleekly fitted boa. At the shoulders, a perfect nuance, hung the smallest golden tassels.

At first Joanna was reluctant. She had never expected to wear anything like it. But she had brought nothing at all dressy, and at Anlegeplatz, dinner was formal. So she had little choice but to put it on. When she did, she was transformed. It was magical. With makeup, and her hair in a French knot, she was no longer the cherubic, ordinary-looking physical therapist from New Mexico but a stylish and sexy international socialite, who carried herself with grace and panache.

The grand hall that was Anlegeplatz's dining room might have served as the set for some medieval costume drama. The twelve guests sat in hand-carved, high-backed chairs facing each other across a long, narrow dining table that could easily seat thirty, while half-a-dozen waiters saw to their every need. The room itself was two stories high and made entirely of stone. Flags with the crests of great families hung from the ceiling like battle standards, imparting the sense that this had been a place of kings and knights.

Elton Lybarger sat at the head of the table, with Uta Baur directly to his right, conversing with him in her animated style as if the two of them were the only creatures present. She was dressed entirely in black, which Joanna later learned was her trademark. Knee-length black boots, skintight black trousers, and black, single-breasted blazer, closed only by its button at the breast plate. The skin on her hands, face and neck was taut and iridescent, as if it had never been touched by sunlight. The cleavage of her smallish breasts, pushed upward by an underwire bra, was the same milk white, lined with surface veins of light blue, like tiny cracks in fine china. Under her extraordinarily short white hair the only accent was her plucked eyebrows. She wore no makeup or jewelry of any kind. She made a statement without it.

The dinner itself was long and leisurely and, despite the other guests-Dr. Salettl, the twins, Eric and Edward, and several people Joanna had been introduced to but didn't know-Joanna spent most of it talking with Von Holden about Switzerland, its history, its rail system and its geography. Von Holden seemed to be an expert, but he could have been talking about the dark side of the moon for all the difference it made. His cold, abrupt phone call that morning asking her to be ready to be picked up from her hotel had made her feel cheap and ugly, as if she'd been used the night before. But when he'd met her in the garden that afternoon, he'd been as warm and generous as he had been the night before and that behavior continued here at dinner. And as the evening wore on, and as much as she tried not to show it, the truth was, she was melting for his touch.

After dinner, Lybarger, Uta, Dr. Salettl and the other guests retired to the second-floor library for coffee and a dual piano recital by Eric and Edward.

Joanna and Von Holden, as employees, were not invited and excused for the evening.

"Doctor Salettl told me he expects Mr. Lybarger to be able to walk without a cane by this Friday," Joanna said as she watched Uta take Lybarger's arm and help him up the stairs.

"Will he?" Von Holden looked at her.

"I hope so, but it depends on Mr, Lybarger. I don't know what's so important about Friday. What difference would another few days make?"

"I want to show you something," Von Holden said, ignoring her question and leading her to a side door near the far end of the dining room. Entering a paneled hallway they walked to where a small door opened to a flight of stairs. Offering his hand, Von Holden led Joanna down a few stairs to another door, which in turn opened on a narrow passageway that led under the front drive and away from the house.

"Where are we going?" she asked quietly.

Von Holden said nothing and Joanna felt a quiver of excitement as they walked on. Pascal Von Holden was a man who could attract and have nearly any woman he wanted. He lived in a world of extremely rich and beautiful people, who were nearly royalty. Joanna was nothing but ordinary, a physical therapist with a southwestern twang. She'd had her foray with him last night and she knew she couldn't have been anything special. So why would he come back for more? If that's what he was doing.

At the far end of the corridor, steps led up. At the top was still another door, and Von Holden opened it. Standing aside, he ushered her in, then closed the door behind them.

Joanna stood open-mouthed, looking up. They were in a room taken up entirely by an enormous waterwheel driven by the flow of a deep and fast-running stream.

"The system provides independent electric power for the estate," Von Holden said. "Be careful, the floor is quite slippery."

Taking her arm, Von Holden led her across to another door. Opening it, he reached inside and turned on the light. Inside was a room made of wood and stone, twenty feet square. In the middle was a pool of churning water, a cutout from the stream, with stone benches all around. Pointing to a wooden door, Von Holden said, "In there is a sauna. All very natural and good for the health."

Joanna could feel herself blush and at the same time feel the heat rise within her.

"I didn't bring anything to change into," she said.

Von Holden smiled. "Ah, but you see, that's the marvel of Uta's designs."

"I don't get it."

"The dress is form-fitting, and made to be worn without underclothing, is it not?"

Joanna blushed again. "Yes. But-"

"Form always follows function." Von Holden reached up, gently fingering one of the golden tassels at Joanna's shoulder. "This decorative tassel."

Joanna knew he was doing something, but she had no idea what. "What about it?"

"If one were to give it the slightest pull . . ."

Suddenly Joanna's dress undraped and slid as elegantly to the floor as a theatrical curtain.

"You see, ready for bath and sauna." Von Holden stood back and let his eyes run over her.

Joanna felt desire as she never had, more-if it was possible-than the night before. Never had the presence of a man felt so devastatingly erotic. At that moment she would have done anything he asked, and more.

"Would you like to undress me? Turnabout is fair play, isn't that how it goes?"

"Yes . . . ," Joanna heard herself whisper. "God, yes."

Then Von Holden touched her, and she came to him and undressed him and they made love in the pool and on the stone benches, and afterward in the sauna.

Love spent, they rested and touched and caressed, and then Von Holden took her again, slowly and purposefully, in ways beyond her darkest imagination. Looking up, Joanna saw herself reflected in the mirrored ceiling and then again on the mirrored wall to her left, and those visions made her laugh in joy and disbelief. For the first time in her life she felt attractive and desired. And she savored it and Von Holden let her. The time was hers, for as long as she wanted.

In a dark-paneled study on the second floor of Anlegeplatz's main building, Uta Baur and Dr. Salettl sat patiently in armchairs and watched the exercise on three large-screen, high-definition television monitors receiving signals transmitted by remote cameras mounted behind the mirrored glass. Each camera had its own monitor, thereby providing full coverage of the action being recorded.

It's doubtful either was physically stirred by what they saw, not because they were both septuagenarians, but because the observance was wholly clinical.

Von Holden was merely an instrument in the study. It was Joanna who was the focus of their interest.

Finally, Uta's long fingers reached over and pressed a button. The monitors went dark and she stood up.

"Ja," she said to Salettl. she said to Salettl. "Ja," "Ja," then walked out of the room. then walked out of the room.

63.

BY O OSBORN's watch it was 2:11 Monday morning, October 10. watch it was 2:11 Monday morning, October 10.

Thirty minutes earlier he'd climbed the last stairs and taken the hidden elevator to the room under the eaves at 18, Quai de Bethune. Exhausted, he'd gone into the bathroom, opened the spigot and drunk deeply. After that he'd removed Vera's bloodsoaked scarf and cleaned the wound in his hand. The thing throbbed like hell and he had a lot of trouble opening his hand. But the pain was welcome because it suggested that as badly as he'd been cut, neither the nerves nor crucial tendons had been severely damaged. He'd taken the tall man's knife between the metacarpal bones just below the joint of the second and third fingers.

Because he could open the hand and close it, he was relatively certain no permanent damage had been done. Still, he would need an X ray to tell for sure. If a bone had been broken or splintered, he'd need surgery and then a cast. Left untreated, he ran the chance it would heal misformed, thus converting him to a one-handed surgeon and all, "but ending his career. That is, if there would be a career left to resurrect.

Finding the antiseptic salve Vera had used on his leg wound, he rubbed it into his hand, then covered it with a fresh bandage. After that he'd gone into the other room, eased down on the bed and awkwardly taken his shoes off with one hand.

He'd waited a full hour after McVey's exit before sliding off the furnace and climbing the darkened service stairs. He'd gone carefully, a step at a time, half expecting to be surprised and challenged by a man with a gun in uniform. But the moment hadn't come, so it was evident that whatever police were still on guard were outside.

McVey had been right. If the French police caught him and put him in jail, the tall man would find a way to kill him there. And then he would go after Vera. Osborn was caught, with McVey the third and final part of the triangle.

Loosening his shirt, Osborn shut out the light and lay back in the dark. His leg, though better, was beginning to stiffen from overexertion. The throbbing in his hand, he found, was less if he kept it elevated, and he arranged a pillow under it. As tired as he was, he should have fallen asleep immediately, but too many things were alive in his mind.

His abrupt intrusion on Vera and the tall man had been sheer coincidence. Certain she was at Work and the apartment would be empty, he'd chanced coming down simply to use the telephone. He'd agonized for hours before finally coming to the conclusion that the most realistic thing he could do would be to call the American embassy, explain who he was and ask for help. In essence throwing himself on the mercy of the United States government. With luck, they would protect him from French jurisprudence and perhaps, in the best of all cases, consider the circumstances and exonerate him for what he had done. After all, it was not he who had killed Henri Kanarack. More important, it was an action that would put the focus entirely on him and remove Vera from the shadow of a scandal that could ruin her. His own private war had been going on for nearly thirty years. It was neither fair nor right that his personal demons bankrupt Vera's life no matter whatever else they might have between them. That was until he had opened the door and seen the tall man's knife at her throat. In that instant the simple clarity of his plan vanished and everything changed. Vera was in it whether either of them wanted it or not. If he went to the American envoy now, that would be end, the same as if the police had him. At the very least he'd he held in protective custody while things were sorted out. And because of the publicity over Kanarack/Merriman's murder, the media would be all over it, thereby telling the tall man Or his accomplices where he was. And when they got him, then they would go after Vera, as McVey had said.

Lying in his pigeonhole at the top of Paris, his hand throbbing above him in the dark, Osborn's thoughts turned to McVey and his offer to help. And the more he weighed one against the other, wondering if he could trust him, whether the overture was genuine or just a ruse to lire him out for the French police, the more he began to realize there was very little else.

At 6:45 A.M., A.M., McVey lay on his stomach in his pajama bottoms with one foot sticking out from under the covers, wanting to sleep but finding it impossible. McVey lay on his stomach in his pajama bottoms with one foot sticking out from under the covers, wanting to sleep but finding it impossible.

He'd played a hunch because it was all that was in his hand. Without Lebrun's presence, the French inspectors would not have permitted him to question Vera Monneray at any length. So he hadn't even tried. Even had Lebrun been there, he would have had trouble exacting the truth of what had happened because Ms. Monneray was smart enough to hide behind the respect of l'amour, l'amour, or, more correctly, the prime minister of France. or, more correctly, the prime minister of France.

Even if he'd been wrong and she had, out of fear or anger or outrage-he'd seen it before-chased after the tall man, blazing away with the gun as she'd said, her statement about not seeing the car killed her story. Because someone had most definitely gone out into the street and fired at it as it sped away.

If she'd admittedly done as she'd said, why would she lie about not seeing the car unless she'd arrived too late on the scene to be aware of what happened. Which, of course, meant someone else had shot at the car.

And since the tech crew had found two separate blood types, and since Vera herself had been uninjured, it meant at least three people had been in the apartment when the shooting took place. One of them had driven away and one of them was still in the apartment. That left one missing.

The first gunshot brought Barras and Maitrot to attention. The second and third had sent them running, with Barras radioing for backup. The tall man had gotten away in a fast car. Moments later, uniforms filled the area. Every apartment in the building and within a three-block radius had been checked, as had every alley, every rooftop, every parked car, and every passing barge on the Seine that a fugitive might have jumped onto from a bridge or a quai.

That meant one thing. The third person was still there. Somewhere. Because of the quickness of the police response and because gunfire had occurred just outside the service door, the most obvious place for that person to hide was the basement.

Yes, it had been thoroughly checked and secured. But it had been done without dogs. Experience had taught that desperate people can be exceedingly clever or sometimes just plain lucky. Which is why he had let the French police finish their job and then gone back.

At 6:50 he opened an eye, glanced at the clock and groaned. He'd been in bed for four and a half hours and was sure he hadn't slept two. One day he would get a solid eight. But when that day would come, he had no idea.

He knew people would give him until seven o'clock, then the calls would start. Lebrun, reporting he was on his way back from Lyon and setting a time to meet. Commander Noble and Dr. Richman calling from London.

Then there were two calls due from L.A. One from Detective Hernandez, whom he'd called when he got back to his room at two in the morning because there had been no fax waiting of the Osborn file he'd requested. Hernandez had not been in and no one else knew anything about it.

The other L.A. call would be from the plumber the neighbors had called when McVey's automatic sprinklers Started going on and off at four-minute intervals around the clock. The plumber was calling back with an estimate of the cost to install an entirely new system to replace the old one McVey had put in himself twenty years earlier With a kit from Sears, the parts to which no longer existed.

Then there was one more call he was waiting for-rather hoping hoping for, the one that had kept him tossing most of the night-the call from Osborn. Again he thought back to the basement. It was bigger than it looked and packed with a zillion cubbyholes. But maybe he'd been wrong, maybe he'd been talking in the dark. for, the one that had kept him tossing most of the night-the call from Osborn. Again he thought back to the basement. It was bigger than it looked and packed with a zillion cubbyholes. But maybe he'd been wrong, maybe he'd been talking in the dark.

6:52. Eight more minutes, McVey. Just close your eyes, try not to think about anything, let all the muscles and nerves and everything else relax.

And that's when the phone rang. Grunting, he rolled over and picked up.

"McVey."

"This is Inspector Barras. Sorry to bother you."

"It's all right. What is it?"

"Inspector Lebrun has been shot."

64.

IT H HAD happened in Lyon, at the Gare la Part Dieu shortly after six. Lebrun had just gotten out of a taxi and was entering the train station when a gunman on a motorcycle opened fire with an automatic weapon and then immediately fled the scene. Three others had been shot as well. Two were dead, the third seriously injured. happened in Lyon, at the Gare la Part Dieu shortly after six. Lebrun had just gotten out of a taxi and was entering the train station when a gunman on a motorcycle opened fire with an automatic weapon and then immediately fled the scene. Three others had been shot as well. Two were dead, the third seriously injured.

Lebrun had been hit in the throat and chest and had been taken to the Hospital la Part Dieu. Initial reports were that he was in critical condition but expected to live.

McVey had listened to the details, asked to be kept abreast of the situation and then gotten quickly off the phone. Immediately afterward he'd dialed Ian Noble in London.

Noble had just come in to the office and was having his first tea of the day when he found McVey on the line. Immediately he sensed McVey was being careful with what he said.

At this stage McVey had no idea whom he could trust and whom he couldn't. Unless the tall man had gone directly from Paris to Lyon after his escape from Vera Monneray's-which was very unlikely, because he'd know the police would throw an immediate dragnet out for him-it meant that whoever was behind what was going on not only had capable gunmen elsewhere, they were somehow monitoring everything the police did. With the exception of himself, no one knew Lebrun had gone to Lyon, yet he had been tracked there just the same, to the point that they knew precisely what train he was taking back to Paris.

Completely baffled, he had no idea who they were, what they were doing or why. But he had to suppose that if they'd taken out Lebrun when he got too close to their setup at Lyon, they would know he and the Paris detective had been working together on the Merriman situation and since he had not, as yet, been molested, the very least he could expect was a tap on his hotel phone. Accepting that, what he conveyed to Noble was what anyone listening would expect to hear. That Lebrun had been shot and was in Lyon at the Hospital la Part Dieu in grave condition. McVey was going to shower and shave, grab a quick breakfast roll and get to police headquarters as quickly as he could. When he had more news, he'd call back.

In London, Ian Noble had gently set the phone back in its cradle and pressed his fingertips together. McVey had just told him the situation, where Lebrun was, and that he was afraid his phone was tapped and would call him back from a public phone.

Ten minutes later, he picked up his private line.

"There's a mole of some kind in Interpol, Lyon," McVey said from a phone booth at a small cafe a block from his hotel. "It has to do with the Merriman killing. Lebrun went there to see what he could find out. Once they know he's still alive, they'll go after him again."

"I understand."

"Can you get him to London?"