"Because-"

"Why?"

Osborn glanced out through the glass. The hallway was empty now. Then, brutally and with a rush, he realized. "You're with him! You're with Frenchy, aren't you?"

She could hear the hard rasp of his anger and she hated him for it. Like that, he was telling her he didn't trust her. "No, I am not. And don't call him that!" she snapped.

"Dammit, Vera. Don't lie to me. Not now. If he's there, just tell me!"

"Paul! Stop it! Or I'll tell you to go to hell and that will be the end of our relationship."

Suddenly he realized he wasn't listening, not even thinking, but instead doing what he'd always done, since the day of his father's murder, reacting to his own numbing fear of losing love. Rage, anger and jealousy-that was how he fended off hurt, protected himself. Yet, at the same time, he was forcing away those who might have loved him and reducing any feelings left to little more than sadness and pity. Then, blaming them, he would slink away, as he always had, to the dark corner of his own exile, ravaged and raw, alienated from everything human on earth.

Like an addict suddenly aware, he realized that if he was ever going to stop his own destruction, it had to be now, at this moment. And difficult as it was, the only way to do it was to damn the outcome and find the courage to trust her.

Digging deep inside, he brought the receiver back.

"I'm sorry ...," he said.

Vera ran a hand through her hair and sat down at a small wooden desk. On it was a clay sculpture of a donkey that had obviously been crafted by a child. It was awkward and primitive but wholly pure. Picking it up, she looked at it, then held it comfortingly against her breast.

"I was afraid of the police, Paul. I didn't know what to do. In desperation I called Francois. Do you know how hard that was for me after I'd left him? He brought me here, to a place in the country, and then went back to Paris. He left three Secret Service agents to protect me. No one is to know where I am, that's why I can't tell you. In case someone is listening. . . ."

Abruptly Osborn's veil lifted, jealousy was gone, replaced by the deep concern that had been there before. "Are you safe, Vera?"

"Yes."

"I think we should get off the line," he said. "Let me call you again tomorrow."

"Paul, are you in Paris?"

"No. Why-?"

"It would be dangerous if you were."

"The tall man is dead. McVey killed him."

"I know. What you don't know is that he was a member of the Stasi, the old East German secret police. They can say they're disbanded but I don't believe it's true."

"You found that out from Francois."

"Yes."

"Why would the Stasi have wanted to kill Albert Merriman?"

"Paul, listen to me, please." There was urgency in her voice. But she was also frightened and confused. "Francois is resigning. It will be made public in the morning. He's doing it because he's being pressured from inside his own party. It has to do with the new economic community, the new European politics."

"What do you mean?" Osborn didn't understand.

"Francois thinks they are all being subjugated by Germany and that Germany will end up controlling the purse strings of all of Europe. He doesn't like it and thinks France is becoming too involved for its own good."

"You're telling me he's being forced out."

"Yes-very reluctantly, but with no choice. It's become very ugly."

"Vera, is Francois afraid for his life if he doesn't resign?"

"He never spoke to me about it. . . ."

Osborn had hit a nerve. Maybe they hadn't discussed it, but she'd thought about it. And probably couldn't stop thinking about it. Francois Christian had sequestered her someplace in the country with three Secret Servicemen guarding her. Did that mean the fact that the tall man had been a Stasi agent somehow interconnected with what was going on in French politics? And that Francois was worried Vera might be in danger because of it, that they would do something to her as a warning to him? Or was she hidden away and protected because of her connection to Osborn and now McVey, and what had happened to Lebrun and his brother in Lyon?

"Vera-if they're listening, I don't give a damn," he said. "I want you to think carefully. From what Francois said, is there a connection between Albert Merriman and me and the situation with Francois?"

"I don't know. . . ." Vera looked at the tiny, sculpted donkey still in her hand, then gently set it back on the table. "I remember my grandmother telling me what it was like in France during the war. When the Nazis came and stayed," she said quietly. "Every moment was filled with fear. People were taken away with no explanation and they never came back. People were spying on each other, sometimes in the same families, and reporting what they saw to the authorities. And men with guns were everywhere. Paul-" She hesitated, and he could hear how afraid she really was. "I feel that same shadow now-"

Suddenly Osborn heard a noise behind him. He wheeled around. McVey was outside the phone booth. So was Noble. McVey jerked the door open.

"Hang up," he said. "Now!"

84.

OSBORN W WAS hustled through the bar and out an exit onto the street. He'd tried to sign off with Vera, but McVey had reached in and cut off the phone with his hand. hustled through the bar and out an exit onto the street. He'd tried to sign off with Vera, but McVey had reached in and cut off the phone with his hand.

"The girl, wasn't it? Vera Monneray," McVey said, pulling open the door to an unmarked Rover at the curb.

"Yes," Osborn said. McVey had pushed into his private world and he didn't like it.

"She with the Paris police?"

"No. The Secret Service."

Doors slammed, and Noble's driver pulled into traffic. Five minutes later they were rounding Piccadilly Circus and turning on Haymarket for Trafalgar Square.

"Unlisted number?" McVey said flatly, staring at the numbers Osborn had scrawled on his hand.

"What are you getting at?" Osborn said defensively, tucking his hands up under his armpits.

McVey stared at him. "I hope you didn't kill her."

Noble turned from his seat next to the driver. "Did you inquire about the telephone you were using or did you find it yourself?"

Osborn turned from McVey. "What difference does it snake?"

"Did you inquire about the telephone Or did you find it yourself?"

"The phones in the lobby were being used. I asked if there were any others."

"And someone told you."

"Obviously."

"Anybody see you place the call? See what booth you went into?" McVey let Noble continue.

"No," Osborn said quickly, then suddenly remembered.

"A hotel employee, an old black woman. She was vacuuming the hallway."

"Not hard to trace a call from a public telephone," Noble said. "Especially if you know which phone it is. Listed or unlisted, fifty pounds in the right hands will get you the number, the town, the street address and most likely what's being served for dinner. All in the bat of an eyelash."

Osborn sat for a long time in silence and watched as nighttime London flashed by. He didn't like it, but Noble was right. He'd been foolish, stupid. But this wasn't his world. Where every thought had to have a forethought, and everyone was under suspicion no matter who they were.

Finally he looked to McVey. "Who's doing this? Who are they?"

McVey shook his head.

"Did you know the man you shot was a member of the Stasi," Osborn said.

"She tell you that?"

"Yes."

"She's right."

Osborn was incredulous. "You knew?"

McVey didn't reply. Neither did Noble.

"Let me tell you, something you probably don't don't know. The French prime minister has resigned his office. It'll be announced in the morning. He was forced out by people in his own party because of his opposition to France's part in the new European community. He thinks the Germans have too much power, they disagree." know. The French prime minister has resigned his office. It'll be announced in the morning. He was forced out by people in his own party because of his opposition to France's part in the new European community. He thinks the Germans have too much power, they disagree."

"Nothing new in that." Noble shrugged and turned to say something to the driver.

"It's new if he thinks they'd kill him if he didn't. Or kill Vera as a point to him and his family."

McVey and Noble exchanged glances.

"Is that what you think or what she said?" McVey asked.

Osborn glared at him. "She's scared, all right? For a lot of reasons."

"You didn't help her any. Next time when I tell you to do something, you do it!" McVey turned to look out the window. After that, silence fell over the car, and there was only the hum of the tires against the road. Occasionally lights from oncoming traffic illuminated the men inside, but for the most part they sat in darkness.

Osborn leaned back. In his life he thought he'd never been so tired. Every limb ached. His lungs, as they lifted and fell with each breath, felt as if they were lead. Sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done that. Absently he ran his hand along the roughness of his jaw and supposed that somewhere along the way he'd forgotten to shave. Looking at McVey, he saw the same weariness in him. Deep circles hung under his eyes and gray-white stubble showed on his chin. His clothes, fresh as they were, looked as if he might have been sleeping in them for a week. And Noble, sitting in front, looked no better.

The Rover slowed and turned into a narrow side street and a block later swung into an underground garage. Suddenly it occurred to Osborn to ask where they were going.

"Berlin." McVey beat him to it.

"Berlin?"

Two uniformed policemen approached the car as it stopped and opened the doors.

"Right this way if you would, gentlemen." The uniforms led the way down a corridor and then out a door leading onto the tarmac. They were at the far corner of a commercial airport. In the distance a twin-engine plane sat waiting, its interior lights on, a portable stairway leading up to an open door in the fuselage.

"The reason you're coming along," McVey said as they walked toward it, "is to give a deposition before a German judge. I want you to tell him what Albert Merriman said to you just before he was shot."

"You're talking about Scholl."

McVey nodded.

Osborn could feel his pulse jump. "He's in Berlin."

"Yes."

Ahead of them, Noble went up the steps and into the plane.

"My deposition is to help get a warrant for his arrest."

"I want to talk to him." McVey started up the stairs.

Osborn was euphoric. It was why he'd gambled meeting with McVey in the first place. To take him the next step, to help him get to Scholl.

"I want to be there when you do."

"That's what I assumed." McVey disappeared inside the plane.

85.

"YOU S SEE no sign of struggle and no evidence of foul play. The perimeter fences are monitored by video and have been checked by foot patrol with dogs. There is no evidence that security has been compromised." Georg Springer, the slim, balding, head of security for Anlegeplatz, crossed Elton Lybarger's huge bedroom glancing at his slept-in but now empty bed, listening to an armed security officer. It was 3:25, Thursday morning. no sign of struggle and no evidence of foul play. The perimeter fences are monitored by video and have been checked by foot patrol with dogs. There is no evidence that security has been compromised." Georg Springer, the slim, balding, head of security for Anlegeplatz, crossed Elton Lybarger's huge bedroom glancing at his slept-in but now empty bed, listening to an armed security officer. It was 3:25, Thursday morning.

Springer had been wakened just after three and informed that Lybarger was missing from his room. Immediately he'd contacted central security, whose cameras monitored the main gate, the twenty miles of perimeter fencing and the only other ingresses, the guarded service entrance near the garage and a maintenance facility a half mile up a winding road to the rear. In the preceding four hours, no one had passed in or out.

Springer gave Lybarger's room one last glance, then started for the door. "He could have become ill and wandered off in search of help, or he could be in some state of sleep where he doesn't know where he is. How many personnel are on duty?" .