Aside from the ticket stubs from the Ambassadors Theatre in London that had sent up Lebrun's antennae in the first place, the only objects of even passing interest he'd turned up in Osborn's belongings were-restaurant receipts, tucked in the pocket of his "daily reminder." They were dated Friday, September 30, and Saturday, October 1. Friday was Geneva, Saturday, London. The receipts were for two. But that was all. So Osborn had taken someone to dinner in both those cities. So had a hundred thousand other people. He'd told Paris detectives he'd been alone in his hotel in London. They probably never asked him about dinner. Chiefly because they had no reason. Any more than McVey had reason now to connect him to the beheading murders.

Lebrun smiled at McVey's painful dismay. "My friend, you forget you are in Paris."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, mon ami, mon ami, that a ten-year-old kid writing a TV show . . .," Lebrun paused just slightly for effect- "isn't likely to be sleeping with the prime minister." that a ten-year-old kid writing a TV show . . .," Lebrun paused just slightly for effect- "isn't likely to be sleeping with the prime minister."

McVey's jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

"Not kidding," Lebrun said, lighting another cigarette.

"Does Osborn know?"

Lebrun shrugged.

McVey glowered at him. "So she's out of bounds, right?"

"Oui." Lebrun smiled a little. Veteran homicide detectives should know better than to be surprised at Lebrun smiled a little. Veteran homicide detectives should know better than to be surprised at "l amour," "l amour," even if they even if they were were American. Or the ramifications of how hopelessly complicated it could get. American. Or the ramifications of how hopelessly complicated it could get.

McVey stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to my hotel and then back to London. And if you have any more bright suspects, check them out yourself first, okay?"

"I seem to remember offering to do it this time," Lebrun said with a grin. "You may recall that the idea to come to Paris was yours."

"Next time talk me out of it." McVey started for the door.

"McVey." Lebrun reached over and stamped out his, cigarette. "I couldn't reach you this afternoon."

McVey said nothing. His methods of investigation were his own and they were not always entirely legal, nor did they always involve fellow officers-the Paris P.D., Interpol, the London Metropolitan Police and the LAPD included.

"I wish I had been able to," Lebrun said.

"Why?" McVey said flatly, wondering if Lebrun knew and was testing him.

Pulling open his top desk drawer, Lebrun took out another manila folder. "We were in the middle of this," he said, handing it to McVey. "We could have used your expertise."

McVey eyed him for a moment, then opened it. What he saw were crime scene photographs of an extremely brutal murder. A man had been killed in what looked like an apartment. Separate photographs showed close-ups of his knees. Each had been destroyed by a single, and powerful, gunshot.

"Done with a U.S.-made Colt thirty-eight automatic fitted with a silencer. We found it next to him. Taped grip. No prints. No identification numbers," Lebrun said quietly.

McVey looked at the next two photographs. The first was of the man's face. It was bloated three times its normal size. The eyes protruded from the skull in horror. Pulled tight around the neck was a wire garrote that looked as if it was once a clothes hanger. The second phonograph was of the groin area. The man's genitals had been shot away.

"Jesus," McVey mumbled under his breath.

"Done with the same weapon," Lebrun said; McVey looked up. "Somebody was trying to get him to talk."

"If it were me, I would have told them whatever they wanted to know," Lebrun said. "Just in the hopes they'd kill me."

"Why are you showing me this?" McVey asked. The First Prefecture of Paris Police had a sparkling record as far as inner-city homicide investigations went. They certainly didn't need McVey's counsel.

Lebrun smiled. "Because don't want you to go running back to London quite so soon."

"I don't get it." McVey glanced at the open file once more.

"His name is Jean Packard. He was a private detective for the Paris office of Kolb International. On Tuesday, Dr. Paul Osborn hired him to locate someone."

"Osborn?"

Lighting another cigarette, Lebrun blew out the match and nodded.

"A pro did this, not Osborn," McVey said.

"I know. Tech found a smudged print on a piece of broken glass. It wasn't Osborn's and we had nothing in our computer that would match it. So we sent it to Interpol headquarters at Lyon."

"And?"

"McVey,-we only found him this morning."

"It still wasn't Osborn," McVey said with certainty.

"No, it wasn't," Lebrun agreed. "And it might be a complete coincidence and not have a thing to do with him."

McVey sat back down.

Lebrun picked up the folder and put it back in his drawer. "You're thinking things are complicated enough and this Jean Packard business has nothing to do with our headless bodies and bodyless head. But you're, also thinking you came to Paris because of Osborn, because there was the slightest chance he might have had something to do with it. And now this happens. So you're asking yourself if we look far enough, for long enough, maybe there is a connection after all. . . . Am I correct, McVey?"

McVey looked up. "Oui," he said.

22.

THE D DARK limousine was waiting outside. limousine was waiting outside.

Vera had seen it pull up from her bedroom window. How many times had she stood in that window waiting for it to turn the corner? How many times had her heart jumped at the sight of it? Now she wished it had nothing to do with her, that she was watching from another apartment and that the intrigue belonged to someone else.

She wore a black dress with black stockings, pearl earrings and a simple pearl necklace. Thrown over her shoulders was a short jacket of silver mink.

The chauffeur opened the rear door and she got in. A moment later he got behind the wheel and drove off.

At 4:55, Henri Kanarack washed his hands in the employee sink at the bakery, stuck his time card into the clock on the wall and punched out for the day. Stepping into the hallway where he kept his coat, he found Agnes Demblon waiting for him.

"Do you want a lift?" she asked.

"Why? Do you ever give me a lift home? No, you don't. You always stay until the day's receipts are in."

"Yes. But, tonight I . . ."

"Tonight, especially," Kanarack said. "Today. Tonight. Nothing is different. Do you understand?"

Without looking at her he pulled on his jacket, then opened the door and stepped out into the rain. It was a short walk from the employees' entrance down the alley to the street in front. When he turned the corner, he pulled his collar up against the rain, then walked off. It was exactly two minutes after five.

Across the street and two doors down, a rented dark blue Peugeot was parked at the curb, the rain beading up in little knots on its freshly waxed exterior. Inside, sitting in the dark behind the wheel, was Paul Osborn.

At the corner, Kanarack turned left onto boulevard de Magenta. At the same time Osborn twisted the key in the ignition, then pulled out from the curb and followed. At the corner he swung left in the direction Kanarack had gone. He glanced at his watch. Seven after the hour and with the rain, already dark. Looking back, all Osborn saw were strangers and for a moment he thought he'd lost him, then he caught sight of Kanarack on the far sidewalk, walking deliberately but apparently in no hurry. His easy manner made Osborn think that he'd given up on the idea he was being followed, that he had taken the other night's attack and foot chase as an obscure incident done by a crazy man.

Ahead, Kanarack stopped for a traffic light. So did Osborn. As he did, he could feel the emotion rise up. "Why not do it now?" an inner voice was saying. Wait for him to step off the curb and into the street. Then gun the accelerator, run him down and drive away! No one will see you. And who cares if they do? If the police find you just tell them you were about to go to them. That you thought you might have run over someone in the dark and the rain. You weren't sure. You looked but you saw no one. What can they say? How could they know it was the same man? They had no idea who it was in the first place.

No! Don't even think it. Your emotion nearly ruined it the first time. Besides, kill him like that and you will never have the answer to your question, and having that answer is every bit as important as killing him. So calm down and stick to your plan and everything will be all right.

The first shot of succinylcholine will have its own effect, putting his lungs on fire for lack of oxygen because he doesn't have the muscle control to breathe. He'll be suffocating and helpless and more afraid than he's ever been in his life. He'd tell you anything if he could, but he won't be able to.

Then, little by little, the drug will start to wear off and he'll begin to breathe again. Grateful, he'll smile and think he's beaten you. Then suddenly he'll realize you are about to give him a second shot. Much stronger than the first, you'll tell him. And all he'll think about is that second shot and the horror of repeating what he's just been through, only this time with the knowledge that it will be worse, much worse, if such a thing were possible. That's when he'll answer your question, Paul. That's when he'll tell you anything you want to know.

Osborn's eyes went to his hands and he saw his knuckles clenched white around the steering wheel. He thought if he squeezed any harder the wheel would snap off in his hands. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed. And the urge to act faded.

Ahead, the light changed and Kanarack crossed the street. He had to assume he was being followed, either by the American or, by now, though he doubted it, the police. Either way, he could let nothing appear to be any different than it had been, five days a week, fifty weeks a year for the past ten years. Leave the bakery at five, stop somewhere along the way for a brief refreshment, then take the Metro home.

Halfway down the next block was the brasserie Le Bois. He kept his pace unhurried and steady; to all the world he was a simple working man, exhausted at the end of his day. Stepping around a young woman walking a dog, he reached Le Bois, pulled open its heavy glass door, and entered.

Inside, the terrace room facing the street was crowded with the noise and smoke of people unwinding after work. Looking around, Kanarack tried to find a table by the window where he could be seen from the street, but there was none. Grudgingly, he took a seat at the bar. Ordering an espresso with Pernod, he looked toward the door. If a plainclothes policeman came in, he would recognize him or her immediately by attitude and body language as they looked around. Plainclothes or not, high rank or low, every cop in the world wore white socks and black shoes.

The American was another question. The initial attack on him had been so sudden Kanarack had barely seen his face. And when the American had followed him down into the Metro, Kanarack's own emotions had been rushing and the place jammed with commuters. The little he could remember was that he had been nearly six feet tall, had dark hair and was very strong.

Kanarack's drink came and for a minute he let it sit on the bar in front of him. Then, picking it up, he took a small sip and felt the warmth of the mixture of coffee and liqueur as it went down. He could still feel Osborn's hands around his throat, the fingers digging savagely into his windpipe trying to strangle him. That was the part he didn't understand. If Osborn had been there to kill him, why did he do it that way? A gun or a knife, sure. But bare hands in a crowded public building? It didn't make sense.

Jean Packard hadn't been able to explain it either.

It had been easy enough to find out where the detective lived, even though his phone number, along with his address, was unlisted. Speaking in English with an unwavering American accent, Kanarack had placed an emotional call to the Kolb International switchboard in New York just at closing. Saying he was calling from his car phone somewhere outside Fort Wayne, Indiana, and was desperately trying to reach his half brother, Jean Packard, an employee of Kolb International, with whom he'd lost contact since Packard had moved to Paris. Packard's eighty-year-old mother was desperately ill in a Fort Wayne hospital and not expected to live through the night. Was there any way he could get in touch with his half brother at home?

New York was five hours behind Paris at this time of year. Six o'clock in New York was eleven in Paris, the Kolb offices there were closed. The New York operator on duty checked with his supervisor. This was a legitimate family emergency. Paris was closed. What should he do? At closing time his supervisor, like everyone else, was in a hurry to leave. With only a moment's hesitation, the supervisor cleared the international computer code and authorized the channeling of Jean Packard's home telephone number in Paris to his half brother in Indiana.

Agnes Demblon's first cousin worked as a fire brigade dispatcher in Paris Central Fire District One. A telephone number became an address. It was no harder than that.

Two hours later, at 1:15 Thursday morning, Henri Kanarack stood outside Jean Packard's apartment building in the Porte de la Chapelle section north of the city. A bloody twenty minutes later, Kanarack went down the back stairwell leaving what was left of Jean Packard sprawled on his living room floor.

Ultimately he'd given Kanarack Paul Osborn's name and the name of the hotel where he was staying in Paris. But that was all. The other questions-why Osborn had attacked Kanarack in the brasserie, why he'd hired Kolb International to track him down, if Osborn represented or was working for someone else-Packard could not answer. And Kanarack was certain he'd been told the truth. Jean Packard had been tough, but not that tough. Kanarack had learned well his stock in trade in the early sixties, taught proudly and with relish by the U.S. Army Special Forces. As leader of a long-range reconnaissance platoon in the first days of Vietnam, he'd been thoroughly schooled in the ways of obtaining the most delicate information from even the most hardheaded adversary.

The trouble was that in the end all he'd gotten from Jean Packard was a name and an address. The exact same information Packard had given Osborn about him. So to his thinking, Osborn could only be one thing, a representative of the Organization come to liquidate him. Even if the first attempt had been sloppy, there could be no other reason. No one else would recognize him or have cause.

The ugly part was that if he killed Osborn, they would only send someone else. That is, if they knew. His only hope was that Osborn was a freelancer, some kind of bounty hunter given a list of names and faces and promised a fortune if he brought any of them in. If Osborn had happened on him by chance and had hired Jean Packard on his own, things still might be all right.

Suddenly he felt a rush of air from outside and looked up. Le Bois' front door had opened and a man in a raincoat was standing there. He was tall and wore a hat and was looking around. At first his eyes swept the crowded terrace, then he looked toward the bar. When he did, he found Henri Kanarack staring at him. As quickly, he looked away. A moment later, he pushed through the door and was gone. Kanarack relaxed. The tall man had not been a cop and not been Osborn. He'd been nobody.

Across the street, Osborn sat behind the wheel of the Peugeot and watched the same man come out, glance back in through the door, then walk off. Osborn shrugged. Whoever he was, he wasn't Kanarack.

The baker had gone into Le Bois at five fifteen. It was now almost a quarter to six. He'd made the drive back from the river park through rush-hour traffic in less than twenty-five minutes, and had parked across from the bakery just after four. It had given him time to canvass the neighborhood and get back into his car before Kanarack came out.

Walking a half-dozen blocks in either direction, Osborn had found three alleys and two deliveryways leading to industrial warehouses that were closed. Any of the five would do. And if tomorrow night Kanarack followed the same route he'd taken tonight, the best of the five would be right on the way. A narrow alley with no doors opening onto it and without streetlights, less than a half block from the bakery.

Dressed in the same jeans and running shoes he now wore, he'd a watch cap low over his face and wait in the darkness for Kanarack to pass. Then, with a full syringe of succinylcholine in his hand, and another in his pocket to make sure, he'd attack Kanarack from behind. Throwing his left arm around his throat, he'd jerk Kanarack backward into the alley while at the same time driving the needle solidly into his right buttock through clothes and all. Kanarack would react hard, but Osborn needed only four seconds to complete the injection. All he had to do then was let go and step back and Kanarack could do what he wanted. Attack him or run away, it would make no difference. In less than twenty seconds his legs would begin to lose feeling. Twenty more, and he'd be unable to stand. Once he collapsed, Osborn would move in. If there were passersby, he would say in English that his friend was American and ill and he was helping him into the Peugeot at the curb to take him to a medical facility. And Kanarack, on the brink of skeletal muscular paralysis, would be unable to protest. Once in the car and moving, Kanarack would be helpless and terrified. His entire being would be concentrated on one thing alone, trying to breathe.

Then, as they sped across Paris for the river road and the secluded park, the effects of succinylcholine would begin to wear off and Kanarack would slowly begin to take in air once more. And just as he was feeling better, Osborn would hold up the second syringe and tell his prisoner who he was and threaten him with a stronger, far more potent and most unforgettable shot. Then, and only then, could he sit back and ask why Kanarack had murdered his father. And have no doubt whatsoever that Kanarack would tell him.

23.

AT F FIVE minutes past six, Henri Kanarack came out of Le Bois and indifferently walked two blocks to enter the Metro station across from the Gare de l'Est. minutes past six, Henri Kanarack came out of Le Bois and indifferently walked two blocks to enter the Metro station across from the Gare de l'Est.

Osborn watched him go, then clicked on the overhead light and checked the map on the seat next to him. Ten and a half miles and nearly thirty-five minutes later, he drove past Kanarack's apartment building in Montrouge. Leaving the car on a side street, he walked a block and a half and took up a position in the shadows across the street from Kanarack's building. Fifteen minutes later, Kanarack came walking up the sidewalk and went inside. From beginning to end, bakery to home, there had been no indication he thought he was being followed, or in danger. No sense at all of anything other than daily routine. Osborn smiled. Everything was on track and running as planned.

At seven forty, he pulled the Peugeot up in front of his hotel, gave the keys to an attendant and went inside. Crossing the lobby, he checked the front desk for messages.

"No, monsieur. I am sorry." The petite brunette smiled at him from across the desk.

Osborn thanked her and turned away. In a way he'd been hoping Vera had called, but he was just as glad she hadn't. He didn't want the distraction. Simplicity now was everything, and he had to concentrate on what he was doing. He wondered what made him tell Detective Barras he would be leaving Paris in five days. He could have as easily said a week or ten days, two weeks even. Five days had compressed everything to the point of nearly losing control. Things were happening too fast. Timing was too critical. There was no room for error or for the unforeseen. What if Kanarack became ill overnight and decided not to go to work. Then what? Go to his apartment, force himself in and do it there? What about other people? Kanarack's wife, family, neighbors? There was no room for something like that to happen because he hadn't given himself room. There was no latitude. None. It was as if he held dynamite in his hand with the fuse already lit. What could he do but follow through and hope for the best?

Taking his mind from it, Osborn turned away from the elevators and went into the gift shop for an English-language newspaper. Taking a copy from the rack, he turned to wait his turn at the cashier. For a moment it hung in his mind what would have happened if Jean Packard had not located Kanarack as quickly as he had. What would he have done-left the country and come back? But when? How would he know that the police hadn't made a notation on the electronic code on his passport to alert them if he did come back within a certain time? How long would he have to wait before he felt it was safe to return? Or what if the investigator had not been able to locate Kanarack at all? What would he have done then? But luckily that wasn't the case. Jean Packard had done his job well and it was up to him to follow through with the rest. Relax, he told himself and moved up to the cashier, absently glancing at the newspaper, as he did.

What he saw was beyond reason. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Jean Packard's face staring out at him from under a bold front-page headline: PRIVATE DETECTIVE SAVAGELY MURDERED! PRIVATE DETECTIVE SAVAGELY MURDERED!

Below it was a subheading: "Former soldier of fortune heinously tortured before death."

Slowly the gift shop began to spin. Slowly at first. Then faster and faster. Finally Osborn had to put out a hand against a candy counter to stop it. His heart was pounding and he could hear the sound of his own deep breaths. Steadying himself, he looked at the paper again. The face was still there; so was the headline and the words underneath.

Somewhere off he heard the cashier ask if he was all right. Vaguely he nodded and reached in his pocket for change. Paying for the newspaper, he managed to navigate his way through the gift shop and then out and back across the lobby toward the elevators. He was certain Henri Kanarack had discovered Jean Packard following him, had turned the tables and killed him. Quickly he scanned the article for Kanarack's name. It wasn't there. All it said was that the private investigator had been murdered in his apartment late the night before and that the police had refused comment on either suspects or motive.

Reaching the elevators, Osborn found himself waiting in a group with several others he scarcely noticed. Three might have been Japanese tourists, the other was a plain-looking man in a rumpled gray suit. Looking away, he tried to think. Then the elevator doors opened and two businessmen got out. The others filed in, Osborn with them. One of the Japanese pressed the button for the fifth floor. The man in the gray suit pushed nine. Osborn pressed seven.

The doors closed and the elevator started up.

What to do now? Osborn's first thought was Jean Packard's files. They would lead the police directly to him and then to Henri Kanarack. Then he remembered Jean Packard's explanation of how Kolb International worked. Of how Kolb prided itself on protecting its patrons. How its investigators worked in complete confidentiality with clients. How all files were given to the client at the end of an investigation with no copies made. That Kolb was little more than a guarantor of professionalism and a billing agent. But Packard had not given Osborn his files. Where were they?

Suddenly Osborn remembered being amazed that the detective never wrote anything down. Maybe there weren't any files. Maybe these days that had to be the private investigator's game. Keep information out of everyone's hands but your own. Kanarack's name and address had been given to him only at the last moment, handwritten and on a cocktail napkin. A napkin that was still in the pocket of the jacket Osborn was wearing. Maybe that was it, the file in its entirety.

The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and the Japanese got out. The doors closed again and the elevator started up. Osborn glanced at the man in the gray suit. He looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place him. A moment later they reached the seventh floor. The door opened and Osborn got out. So did the man in the gray suit. Osborn went one way, the man the other.