"Vera," she said sharply. "My name is Avril Rocard. I am a police officer. The telephones are out. francois I Christian sent me to get you. The men protecting you were criminals who had infiltrated the Secret Service."

Silence.

"Is someone with you, Vera? Is that why you can't speak out?"

Slowly, Avril pushed the door open enough for her to step inside. To her left was a long bench with a blank wall behind it. In front of her, through the door frame, was the living room. Beyond it, the hallway continued into -shadow and then out of sight.

"Vera?" she said again.

Still there was no answer.

Vera stood alone, just inside the hallway entrance. She'd started to go out the back door, but realized it opened to a wide lawn that ran down to a duck pond. If she Went out there, she'd be nothing but a target.

"Vera." Avril's voice came again and she could hear the wide plank floorboards creak beneath her feet.

"Don't be afraid, Vera. I'm here to help you. If someone has you, don't move. Don't struggle. Just stay where you are. I'll come to you."

Vera took a deep breath and held it. A small window was to her right and she glanced out, hoping someone would be coming up the driveway. Agents sent to relieve the dead guards, a postman, anything.

"Vera." Avril's voice was closer now. She was coming toward her. Vera looked down. She was a doctor, trained to save lives. She had no training in taking them. Still, she wouldn't die, not here, if she could do anything at all to prevent it. Between her hands was a length of dark blue drapery cord, pulled from the bedroom curtains.

"If you're alone and hiding, please come out, Vera. francois is waiting for word of your safety."

Vera cocked an ear. Avril's voice was retreating. Perhaps she'd gone into the living room. Letting out her breath, she relaxed. As she did, the small window to her right suddenly shattered.

Avril was right there! There was a sharp report, and the wood fragments exploded everywhere. Vera screamed as splinters riddled her neck and face. Then Avril's hand was inside the window frame, her gun looking for the final shot. Blindly, Vera's two hands shot forward, encircling Avril's gun hand with the dark blue cord. At the same time she jerked them tight, and pulled backward with all her strength. Caught off guard, Avril's head shot face-first through the broken glass. There was a dull thud as the Beretta dropped at Vera's feet.

Face cut and bleeding from the shattered glass, Avril struggled wildly to pull free. But her struggle only strengthened Vera's resolve. Tugging backward on the cord, she extended Avril's arm to its full length. Now, with Avril's body pressed up against the outside of the house, Vera heaved backward with both hands. There was a pop, and Avril screamed as her shoulder dislocated. Then Vera let go, and slowly Avril slid back out the window and slumped on the ground below, crying in agony.

"Who are you?" Vera said, as she approached from outside. Avril's Beretta was in her hand and she had it pointed directly at the long-legged figure in the dark skirt slumped on the ground, her dislocated arm twisted awkwardly under her.

"Answer me. Who are you? Who do you work for?"

Avril said nothing. Very carefully Vera moved forward. The woman on the ground was a professional. In the last five minutes she had seen her shoot three men to death and try to kill her.

"Put your good hand out and roll over where I can see both your hands," she commanded.

Avril didn't move. Then Vera saw a crimson ooze of blood where her breast and shoulder touched the ground. Reaching out, she kicked at Avril's foot. Nothing happened.

Trembling, she moved closer, the gun pointed, ready to fire. Bending down carefully, she took hold of Avril's shoulder and rolled her over on her back. Blood ran down from beneath her chin and onto her blouse. Her left fist was closed. Easing down on one knee, Vera opened it. When she did, she cried out, and moved back. In it was a single-edged razor blade. In the time it had taken Vera to pick up Avril's gun and come out of the house, Avril Rocard had cut her own throat.

91.

Berlin, 11 A.M. A.M.

A BLONDE waitress in a Bavarian costume smiled briefly at Osborn, then set a steaming pot of coffee on the table and left. They had come into Berlin on the autobahn and driven directly to a small diner on Waisenstrasse that billed itself as one of Berlin's oldest restaurants. The owner, Gerd Epplemann, a slight, balding man in a starched white apron, took them directly downstairs to a private dining room where Diedrich Honig waited. waitress in a Bavarian costume smiled briefly at Osborn, then set a steaming pot of coffee on the table and left. They had come into Berlin on the autobahn and driven directly to a small diner on Waisenstrasse that billed itself as one of Berlin's oldest restaurants. The owner, Gerd Epplemann, a slight, balding man in a starched white apron, took them directly downstairs to a private dining room where Diedrich Honig waited.

Honig had dark, wavy hair and a neatly trimmed beard flecked with gray. He was nearly as tall as Remmer but his slim build, and the way his arms hung out from jacket sleeves that were too short, made him look taller. That, and his manner of standing, slightly hunched over, head bent from the neck, made him look startlingly like a German Abraham Lincoln.

"I want you to consider the risk. Herr McVey, Herr Noble," Honig said, as he crossed the room, pacing, his eyes locked on the men he was addressing.

"Erwin Scholl is one of the most influential men in the West. If you approach him, you will be opening a nest far beyond what you consider to be the realm of your experience. You risk horrid embarrassment. To yourselves and to your police departments. To the point where you would either be fired or forced to resign. And it would not end there because once you are out of the protection of your organizations, you will be sued by a sea of attorneys for violation of laws you may never have heard of, and in ways you will not begin to fathom. They will break you down to nothing. They'll find a way to take your homes, your cars, everything. And when it's done, if you have pensions left, you will be lucky. Such is the power of a man like that."

That said, Honig sat down at the long table and poured himself a cup of the strong black coffee the Bavarian waitress had left. The now retired superintendent of the Berlin police was a man courted by the very wealthy and the very powerful at the highest levels of German industry. The latter stages of the cold war had not lessened the deadly resolve of international terrorism. As a result, personal security for one's self and family had increasingly become de rigueur for the European corporate officer. In Berlin, protection of the fiscal barons had fallen to Honig. So, if anyone was in position to know how the rich and powerful protected themselves in clinches, especially in Berlin, it was Diedrich Honig.

"With all respect, Herr Honig," McVey bristled, "I've been threatened before and so far I've survived. You can say the same for Inspectors Noble and Remmer. So let's forget that and get on to why we're here. Murders. A series of them that may have begun thirty or more years ago and are still going on today. One of them happened in New York, sometime within the last twenty-four hours. The victim was a little Jewish guy named Benny Grossman. He was also a cop and a very good friend of mine." McVey's voice was heavy with anger. "We've been working this for some time, but it's only in the last day or so we've started to get some idea of a source. And each time we go around, the more Erwin Scholl's name comes up. Murder for hire, Herr Honig. A long-term, even capital offense almost anywhere in the world."

Directly overhead came the sound of laughter, followed by the creaking of floorboards as a number of people came in for lunch. At the same time, the pungent smell of sauerkraut wafted through the air.

"I want to talk to Scholl," McVey said.

Honig was hesitant. "I don't know if that's possible, Detective. You are an American. In Germany you have no authority. And unless you have hard evidence of a crime committed here, I-"

McVey ignored his reticence. "It goes this way. An arrest warrant in Inspector Remmer's name, directing Scholl to hand himself over to the German Federal Police to be held for extradition to the United States. The charge is suspicion of murder for hire. The American consulate will be informed."

A warrant like that will mean nothing to a man like Scholl," Honig said quietly. "His lawyers will eat it for lunch."

"I know," McVey said. "But I want it anyway,"

Honig crossed his hands on the table in front of him and shrugged. "Gentlemen, the most I can tell you is that I will do what I can.

McVey leaned in. "If you can't arrange it, say so now and I'll find somebody who can. It needs to be done tpday."

92.

VON H HOLDEN had left Scholl's suite at the Grand Hotel Berlin at 7:50. At 10:20 his private jet banked for the final approach to Kloten Airport in Zurich. had left Scholl's suite at the Grand Hotel Berlin at 7:50. At 10:20 his private jet banked for the final approach to Kloten Airport in Zurich.

At 10:52 his limousine pulled into Anlegeplatz and by 11:00 Von Holden was knocking gently on Joanna's bedroom door. Joanna had to be coaxed and stroked and Whatever else was necessary to put her back into her earlier frame of mind, where she was both cooperative and eager to care for Elton Lybarger. Which was why Von Holden carried the jet-black Saint Bernard puppy he'd ordered to have ready upon his arrival.

"Joanna," he said, after his first knock went unanswered. "It's Pascal. I know you're upset. I have to talk with you."

"I have nothing to say to you or anyone else!" she snapped through the closed door.

"Please-"

"No! Dammit! Now, go away!"

Reaching down, Von Holden put his hand on the knob and turned it.

"She's locked the ,door," security guard Frieda Vossler said toughly.

Von Holden turned to look at her. Severe and authoritarian, she was square-jawed and heavily built. She needed to relax and smile and make herself more feminine, if that were possible, before any man would look at her with more than contempt.

"You may leave," Von Holden said.

"I was ordered to-"

"You may leave." Von Holden glared at her.

"Yes, Herr Von Holden." Frieda Vossler clicked her walkie-talkie onto her belt, glanced sharply at him, then walked off. Von Holden stared after her. If she were a man and in the Spetsnaz, he would have killed her for that single glance alone. Then the puppy whimpered and squirmed in his arms and he turned back to the door.

"Joanna," he said, gently. "I have a gift for you. Actually it's for Henry."

"What about Henry?" Suddenly the door flung open, and Joanna stood there, barefoot, in jeans and sweatshirt. The thought someone might have harmed her dog, still back in the kennel in Taos, terrified her. Then she saw the puppy.

Five minutes later, Von Holden had kissed the tears from Joanna's eyes and had her on the floor playing with the five-week-old Saint Bernard. The video she had seen of the explicit sexual escapade involving her, he'd explained, was a cruel study vigorously protested by himself but insisted upon by Lybarger's board of directors after they'd seriously questioned the man's ability to resume control of his fifty-billion-dollar multinational corporation. Afraid of a second stroke or heart attack, their insurance underwriters wanted unequivocal proof of his strength and physical stamina under the most vigorous of everyday conditions. Usual tests were not sufficient, and the underwriters had asked their chief physician, in con-cert with Salettl, to design one.

And Salettl, knowing Lybarger had no wife or love interest at present and realizing how deeply he cared for and trusted Joanna, knew that she was the only one he would be comfortable with. Fearing either or both would reject the proposal if asked, Salettl ordered them both secretly sedated. The experiment was done, recorded and the re-. suits passed on to the board of directors. The lone videotape had since been destroyed. No one else had been there, the cameras had been operated by remote control.

"Joanna, to them, it was business and nothing else. I tried to fight against it to the point of being asked to leave the company if I protested further. That I could not do, for Mr. Lybarger's sake. Or yours. Because I knew that at least I would be there and not some stranger. I'm sorry . . . ," he said gently as tears welled up in her eyes. "One more day, please, Joanna. For Mr. Lybarger. Just the trip to Berlin, and then you will be on your way home."

Von Holden got down on the floor beside her and rubbed the puppy's belly as it rolled over on its back. "If you want to go now, I will understand and put a car for the airport at your disposal. We can hire a temporary therapist and make do with Mr. Lybarger tomorrow as best we can."

Joanna stared at Von Holden, wavering as to what to do; angry and outraged at what had been so ruthlessly done to her, she was confused as well because she realized Elton Lybarger had been as much the victim as she and that she still deeply cared for his well-being.

Von Holden put out his hand, and the black fur ball struggled up on its feet and licked his fingers. In reaction, Von Holden rubbed its head and tousled its ears, smiling the same warm, loving smile that had melted her heart the first day she'd seen him. In that moment Joanna decided that everything he'd told her was true and that under the circumstances his request was not all that unreasonable.

"I'll go with you to Berlin," she said with a sad, shy smile.

Leaning forward, Von Holden brushed his lips against her forehead and thanked her for her understanding.

"Joanna, I must return to Berlin today for last-minute preparations. I apologize, but I have no other choice. You will come tomorrow, with Mr. Lybarger and the others?"

Joanna hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to change her mind, then she relented. "I'll see you there, won't I?"

"Of course." Von Holden grinned.

Joanna felt herself smile. And for the first time since she'd seen the video, she relaxed. Roughing the puppy's ears playfully one more time, Von Holden stood, then took Joanna's hand and helped her up. As he did, he slid an envelope from his pocket and laid it on the desk beside her.

"A corporate way of helping ease your embarrassment and soothe your wounds. Not very personal I'm afraid, but decidedly useful. See you in Berlin," he whispered and left.

Joanna stared at the envelope while the puppy whimpered at her feet. Finally, she picked it up and opened it. When she saw what was inside, she gasped. A cashier's check was made out in her name for five hundred thousand dollars.

93.

REMMER T TURNED the Mercedes off Hardenbergstrasse into the underground garage of a glass-and-concrete municipal building at number 15. One of the gray unmarked federal police escort cars followed them in and backed into a space across from theirs. Osborn could see the faces of the detectives as he got out and walked with the others toward the elevators. They were younger than he expected, probably not even thirty. For some reason that surprised him and he flashed on a whole vanguard of people younger than he was coming up behind him as professionals. It didn't make him feel old as much as it put things out of balance. Policemen had always been older than he was and he was always in the front line of young men coming up, the others were still kids in school. But suddenly they weren't anymore. Why he thought about it now he didn't know except that maybe he was trying to keep from thinking about where they were going and what could conceivably happen when they got here. the Mercedes off Hardenbergstrasse into the underground garage of a glass-and-concrete municipal building at number 15. One of the gray unmarked federal police escort cars followed them in and backed into a space across from theirs. Osborn could see the faces of the detectives as he got out and walked with the others toward the elevators. They were younger than he expected, probably not even thirty. For some reason that surprised him and he flashed on a whole vanguard of people younger than he was coming up behind him as professionals. It didn't make him feel old as much as it put things out of balance. Policemen had always been older than he was and he was always in the front line of young men coming up, the others were still kids in school. But suddenly they weren't anymore. Why he thought about it now he didn't know except that maybe he was trying to keep from thinking about where they were going and what could conceivably happen when they got here.

They'd stayed in the private room in the restaurant for more than two hours eating lunch and drinking coffee and waiting. Then Honig had sent word that criminal court judge Otto Gravenitz would see them in his chambers at three.

On the way over, McVey had counseled him on what to say in his deposition. Merriman's words immediately before his death were all that were important and Osborn was to give only the bare essentials of what had happened. In other words, he was to make no mention of the hired private detective, Jean Packard. No mention of the syringes. No mention of the drug Osborn had administered. What McVey was doing was finding a way to ease Osborn's unstated but undoubtedly very real fear of going into a situation where he might be forced to incriminate himself into a charge of attempted murder.

McVey's gesture was intended to be generous and Osborn was supposed to appreciate it and he did, except that he knew it had a second edge. McVey's concern wasn't that Osborn might put himself on the spot, it was that he didn't want a complication jeopardizing his chance for a murder-for-hire writ against Scholl. That meant the hearing had to be kept simple and pointed at Scholl, both for the judge and for Honig, whose opinion obviously carried a great deal of weight If Osborn went too far with what he said, they'd get into a whole different matter, one that could shift the focus from Scholl to Osborn and seriously endanger the main argument.

"What do you think?" McVey said to Remmer as the elevator doors slid closed. "They know we're here?"

Remmer shrugged. "All I can tell you is that we were not followed from the plane to Berlin. Nor from the restaurant to here. But who knows what eyes we don't see. Safer to assume they know, I think, yes?"

Noble glanced at McVey. Remmer was right: safer to be on guard than not. Even if the "group" didn't know they J were here, they had to believe they soon would. They'd seen too much of the way they worked already.

At the sixth floor, the elevator stopped and they walked out into a reception area where they were ushered into a i private office and asked to wait.

"Do you know this judge? Gravenitz? That his name?" McVey looked around at what was obviously a civil servant's office. The plain steel desk and chair that went with it would fit into any public building in L.A. So would the inexpensive bookcase and the cheap prints on the wall.

Remmer nodded. "Not well, but yes."

"What can we expect?"

"Depends what Honig told him. Unquestionably it was enough for him to agree to see us. But don't think because Honig set it up or Gravenitz agreed to see us right away it's guaranteed. Gravenitz will take convincing.

McVey glanced at his watch and sat down on a corner of the desk, then looked at Osborn.

"I'm okay." Osborn walked over and leaned against the wall by the window. McVey hadn't forgotten his assault on Merriman and wouldn't. That was something else he didn't want to think about, not now. Still, it hung there because he knew at some point it would become an issue.

The door opened and Diedrich Honig came in. Judge Gravenitz, he apologized, had been delayed but would see them momentarily. Then he looked at Noble and told him a message had come for him to call his London office immediately.

"A break, maybe?" Noble went to the desk and picked up the phone. In thirty seconds he had his office. Twenty seconds after that he was transferred to the chief homicide superintendent of the London police.

"Oh God, no," he said a moment later. "How did it happen? He had a twenty-four-hour guard."

"Lebrun," McVey breathed.

"Well where in God's name is he now?" Noble said irritably. "Find him and when you get him, hold him in isolation. When you have any information at all, relay it through Inspector Remmer's office in Bad Godesberg." Hanging up, Noble turned to McVey with the details of Lebrun's murder and the fact that Cadoux had disappeared in the confusion immediately following his shooting of the orderly.

"I don't have to bet whether the orderly's dead," McVey said through clenched teeth.