McVey had two instantaneous thoughts. The first was that a new Ford Sierra with Pirelli tires and a broken mirror was parked somewhere nearby. The second was "He's no six foot four."

Kneeling down, McVey hiked a pant leg up over the dead man's sock line.

"Prosthetics," Osborn said.

"That's a brand-new one on me."

"You don't think he did it on purpose?"

"Had his legs amputated so he could alter his height?" McVey pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, then reached down and tucked it around the Cz automatic still in Oven's hand. Pulling the gun free, he looked at it. Its handle was taped, its identifying marks filed off. Squirreled to its snout was a silencer. It was the workstation of a professional killer.

McVey looked up at Osborn. "Yeah," he said. "I think he did. I think he had his legs cut off on purpose."

69.

MCVEY S STEPPED back from Oven's body and looked at Osborn. "Cover his face, huh?" Then he flashed his badge at a crowd of waiters gawking in horror and fascination a few feet away and told someone to call the police if somebody already hadn't and to get the spectators out of there. back from Oven's body and looked at Osborn. "Cover his face, huh?" Then he flashed his badge at a crowd of waiters gawking in horror and fascination a few feet away and told someone to call the police if somebody already hadn't and to get the spectators out of there.

Pulling a white tablecloth from a nearby table, Osborn covered Bernhard Oven's face while McVey went over the body for identification. Finding none, he reached into his jacket, ripped the stiff cardboard cover from his pocket notebook. Taking Oven's hand, he pressed the thumb into his bloodsoaked shirt, then pressed the bloody thumb against the cardboard, giving him a legible thumbprint.

"Let's get out of here," he said to Osborn.

Pushing quickly through the lingering onlookers, they crossed the dining room, went into the kitchen, and then out a back door and into an alley. As they came but, they heard the first singsong of sirens.

"This way," McVey said, not really certain where they were going. From the moment he'd first reacted, McVey's supposition had been that Oven had been about to shoot Osborn. But now as they stepped onto boulevard du Montparnasse walking toward boulevard Raspail, he realized the intended target could as easily have been himself. The tall man had killed Albert Merriman within hours after it was discovered he was still alive and living in Paris. Then, in quick order, Merriman's girlfriend, his wife and her family had been found and slaughtered. The last, in Marseilles, some four hundred and fifty miles to the south. But in a wink, the killer was back in Paris and in Vera Monneray's apartment looking for Osborn.

How had he found everyone in such rapid order? Merriman's wife, for instance, when every local police force in the country had been put on alert and still had been unable to find her? And Osborn-how had he so quickly discovered Vera Monneray was the "mystery woman" who'd picked Osborn up at the golf course after he'd come out of the Seine when the media was still in the speculation stage and the police were the only ones who knew for sure? And then, in almost the same breath, Lebrun and his brother had been attacked in Lyon. Though probably not by the tall man. Even he couldn't be in two places at once.

Clearly, what was happening was happening at an increasingly frantic pace. And, in turn, the deadly circle kept narrowing. That the tall man was suddenly out of the picture would probably make little difference. He couldn't have done what he had without the help of a complex, sophisticated and very well-connected organization. If they had infiltrated Interpol, why not the Paris Prefecture of Police?

A squad car flew by, then another. The city rocked with sirens.

"How did he know we were going to be there?" Osborn said, as they fought through the evening crowd made electric by what had happened.

"Keep going," McVey urged, and Osborn saw him glance back at the police cars sealing off boulevard du Montparnasse at either end of the block.

"You're worried about the police, aren't you?" Osborn said.

McVey said nothing.

Reaching the boulevard Raspail, they turned right and started up the street. In front of them was a Metro station. McVey thought briefly about taking it, then decided against it, and they kept on; "Why would a policeman be afraid of the police?" Osborn demanded.

Suddenly a blue-black truck turned from a side street and jerked to a stop in the intersection just behind them. Its back door slammed open and a dozen Compagnie de Securite Republicaine antiterrorist police jumped out wearing flak jackets over paratroop jumpsuits and brandishing automatic weapons.

Swearing under his breath, McVey looked around. Two doors down was a small cafe. "In there," he said, taking Osborn by the arm and prodding him toward the door.

People were standing at the windows watching the action on the street and barely took notice as they entered. Finding a corner at the end of the bar, McVey turned Osborn into it and held up two fingers to the bartender.

"Vin blanc," he said. he said.

Osborn leaned back. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

The bartender set two glasses in front of them and filled them with white wine.

"Merci," McVey said, picking up a glass and handing it to Osborn. Taking a deep swallow, McVey turned his back to the room and looked at Osborn. McVey said, picking up a glass and handing it to Osborn. Taking a deep swallow, McVey turned his back to the room and looked at Osborn.

"I'll ask you your own question. How did he know we were going to be there? Answer. You were followed or I was. Or somebody was tapped into the message board at, the Hotel Vieux and figured I might not be meeting the real Tommy Lasorda for drinks.

"A friend of mine, a Parisian detective, was badly shot up this morning and his brother, also a cop, was murdered because he was trying to find out who, besides you, so suddenly got the line on Albeit Merriman about a quarter of a century after the fact. The police may be involved, they may not, I don't know. What I do know is that something's going on that's making it dangerous as hell for anyone even remotely connected to Merriman. And right now, that's you and me, and the smartest thing we can do is get off the street."

"McVey-" Osborn was suddenly alarmed. "There's someone else who knows about Merriman."

"Vera Monneray." In the rush of everything, McVey had forgotten about her.

Dread swept over Osborn. "The French detectives who were guarding her here-I arranged to have them take her to her grandmother's in Calais."

70.

"YOU A ARRANGED?" McVey was incredulous.

Osborn didn't reply. Instead he set his glass on the bar and started down a dingy corridor past the toilets toward a pay phone in the rear of the cafe. He was almost there when McVey caught up with him.

"What're you gonna do, try and call her?"

"Yes." Osborn kept going. He hadn't thought it through, but he had to know she was all right.

"Osborn." McVey took him hard by the arm and pulled him around. "If she is there, she's probably okay, but the detectives with her will be monitoring the line. They'll let you talk while they trace the call. If the French police are involved, you and I won't get five feet out that door." McVey nodded toward the front. "And if she's not there, there's nothing you can do."

Osborn flared. "You don't understand, do you? I have to know."

"How?"

By now Osborn had an answer. "Philippe." Osborn would call him, have Philippe call Vera, then call Osborn back. They couldn't trace the second call.

"The doorman at her apartment?"

Osborn nodded.

"He helped you get out of the building, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"And maybe arranged the tail on you when you left?"

"No, he wouldn't. He's-"

"He's what? what? Somebody let the tall man know Vera was, the mystery girl, and somebody told him where she lived. Why not him? Osborn, for now, your peace of mind is going to have to wait." McVey glared at him long enough to make his point, then looked past him for a way out the back. Somebody let the tall man know Vera was, the mystery girl, and somebody told him where she lived. Why not him? Osborn, for now, your peace of mind is going to have to wait." McVey glared at him long enough to make his point, then looked past him for a way out the back.

A half hour later, paying cash and using an alias-saying their luggage had been lost at the train station- McVey checked them into connecting rooms on the fifth floor of the Hotel St.-Jacques on the avenue St.-Jacques, a tourist hotel less than a mile from La Coupole and the boulevard du Montparnasse.

Obviously American and without luggage, McVey played upon the French disposition for amour. Entering the rooms, McVey gave the bellman an extra-large tip, telling him shyly but very sincerely to make certain they weren't disturbed.

"Oui, monsieur." The bellman gave Osborn a knowing smile, then closed the door behind him and left. The bellman gave Osborn a knowing smile, then closed the door behind him and left.

Immediately McVey checked out both rooms, the closets and bathrooms. Satisfied, he drew the window curtains, then turned to Osborn.

"I'm going down to the lobby and make a phone call. I don't want to make it from here because I want nothing traced to this room. When I get back, I want to go over .everything you remember about Albert Merriman, from the moment he killed your father until the last second in the river."

Reaching into his jacket pocket, McVey took out Bernhard Oven's Cz automatic and put it in Osborn's hand. "I'd ask you if you knew how to use it, but I already know the answer." McVey's glare was enough, the edge in his voice only added to it. He turned for the door. "Nobody comes in but me. Not for any reason."

Easing open the door, McVey looked out, then stepped into a deserted hallway. The elevator was the same. At the lobby the doors opened and he got out. Except for a group of Japanese tourists coming in off a bus tour and following a leader carrying a little green and white flag, the area was all but deserted.

Crossing the lobby, McVey looked for a public phone and saw one near the gift shop. Using an AT&T credit card number billed to a post office box in Los Angeles, he dialed Noble's voice mail at Scotland Yard. A recording took his message.

Hanging up, he went into the gift shop, briefly looked at the selection of greeting cards, then bought a birthday number with a large yellow bunny on it. Back in the lobby, he took out the cardboard notebook cover with Bernhard Oven's dried bloody thumbprint and slipped it in with the card, addressing it to a "Billy Noble" care of a post address in London. Then he went to the front desk and asked the concierge to send it by overnight mail.

He'd just paid the concierge and was turning back for the lobby when two uniformed gendarmes came in from the street and stood looking around. To McVey's left were a number of tour brochures. Casually, he walked over to them. As he did, one of the policemen looked his way. McVey ignored him and thumbed through the brochures. Finally, he chose three and walked back across the lobby in full view of the police. Sitting down near the telephone, he started to look through them. Barge tours. Tours of Versailles. Tours of wine country. He counted to sixty, then looked up. The police were gone.

Four minutes later, Ian Noble called from a private residence where he and his wife were attending a formal dinner for a retiring British army general.

"Where are you?"

"Paris. The Hotel St.-Jacques. Jack Briggs. San Diego. Wholesale jewelry," McVey said in monotone, giving him the location and the name he was registered under. A movement to his left caught his eye. Shifting his stance, he saw three men in business suits coming across the lobby toward him. One seemed to be looking directly at him, the other two were talking.

"You remember Mike, doncha?" he said with verve, opening his jacket, playing the extroverted American salesman, his hand inches from the .38 at his waist. "Yeah, I brought him along with me."

"You have Osborn."

"Sure do."

"Is he trouble?"

"Hell, no. Not yet anyway."

The men passed, going into the alcove toward the elevators. McVey waited until they entered and the door closed, then turned back to the phone and quickly ran down what had happened, adding that he had just put the jail man's thumbprint in the overnight mail.

"We'll run it straightaway," Noble said, then added he'd had words with the French charge d'affaires, who had demanded to know what the hell the Brits thought they were doing shanghaiing a seriously wounded Parisian inspector from his hospital room in Lyon. Further, they wanted him back, posthaste. Noble had said he was appalled, that he'd never heard of such an incident and would look into it immediately. Then, changing subjects, he said they'd come up blank trying to find anyone in Britain experimenting in advanced cryosurgery. If such practice was going on, it was wholly out of sight.

McVey glanced around the lobby. He hated paranoia. It crippled a man and made him see things that weren't. But he had to face the reality that anyone, in uniform or not, could be working for this group, whoever or whatever they were. The tall man would have had no compunction about shooting him right there in the lobby and he had to assume his replacement would do the same. Or if not right then, at least report where he was. By lingering, he was pressing his luck on either account.

"McVey, are you there?"

He turned back to the phone. "What'd you find out about Klass?"

"M16 could find nothing but an exemplary record. Wife, two children. Born in Munich. Grew up in Frankfurt. Captain in the German Air Force. Recruited out of it by West German Intelligence, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, where he developed his skills and reputation as a fingerprint expert. After that, went to work for Interpol at Lyon headquarters."

"No. No good," McVey reacted. "They missed something. Go deeper. Look into people he associates with, outside his daily routine. Hold on-" McVey thought back, trying to remember Lebrun's office the day they had first received Merriman's fingerprint from Interpol, Lyon. Somebody else had been working with Klass-Hal, Hall, Hald-Halder!

"Halder-first name Rudolf. Interpol, Vienna. He worked with Klass on the Merriman print. Look, Ian, do you know Manny Remmer?"

"With the German Federal Police."

"He's an old friend, works out of headquarters in Bad Godesberg. Lives in an area called Rungsdorf. It's not too late. Get him at home. Tell him I said for you to call. Tell him you want anything he can find on both Klass and Halder. If it's there, he'll get it. Trust him."

"McVey-" There was concern in Noble's voice. "I think you've managed to open a rather large can of very disagreeable worms. And, frankly, I think you should get out of Paris damn quick."

"How? In a box or a limo?"

"Where can I reach you in ninety minutes?"

"You can't. I'll reach you."

It was past 9:30 before McVey knocked on the door to Osborn's room. Osborn opened the door to the chain and Peered out.

"Hope you like chicken salad."

In one hand McVey balanced a tray with chicken salad in white plastic bowls with Stretch-Tight across the top, in tie other he juggled a pot of coffee along with two cups, everything purchased from an irritable counter clerk at the hotel coffee shop as he was trying to close for the night.

By ten o'clock the coffee and chicken salad were gone and Osborn was pacing up and down, absently working the fingers of his injured hand, while McVey sat hunched over the bed, using it for a worktable, staring at what he'd written in his notebook.

"Merriman told you that an Erwin Scholl-Erwin spelled with an E-of Westhampton Beach, New York, paid him to kill your father and three other people sometime around 1966."

"That's right," Osborn said.

"Of the other three, one was in Wyoming, one in California, and one in New Jersey. He'd done the work and been paid. Then Scholl's people tried to kill him."

"Yes."

"That's all he said, just the names Of states. No victims' names, no cities?"

"Just the states."

McVey got up and went into the bathroom. "Almost thirty years ago a Mr. Erwin Scholl hires Merriman to do some contract killing. Then Scholl orders him knocked off. The game of kill the killer. Make certain whatever's been taken care of is permanent, with no loose ends that might talk."