At Le Mans he waited until the departing passengers got off the plane. He counted; there were seven of them. Their replacements began coming on board.

He grabbed his suitcase from the luggage rack, walked quickly to the exit door and down the metal steps to the ground. He went inside the terminal and stood by the window.

No one came out of the plane; no one was following him.

His watch read seventeen minutes to five. He wondered if there was still time to reach Helden von Tiebolt. Again he had the essence of what he needed-a name and a place of work. He walked to the nearest telephone, thankful for Willies jar of franc notes and coins.

In his elementary French, he spoke to the operator. "Sil vous plat, le numero de Gallimard Paris ..."

She was there. Mademoiselle Tennyson did not have a telephone at her desk, but if the caller would hold on, someone would get her on the line. The woman at the Gallimard switchboard spoke better English than most Texans.

Helden von Tiebolts voice had that same odd mixture of Portuguese and German as her sisters but it was not nearly so pronounced. Too, there was a trace of the echo Noel remembered so vividly in Gretchens speech, but not the halting, once-removed quality. Helden von Tiebolt-Mademoiselle Tennyson-knew what she wanted to say and said it.

"Why should I meet with you? I dont know you, Mr. Holcroft."

"Its urgent. Please, believe me."

"Theres been an excess of urgencies in my life. Im rather tired of them."

"Theres been nothing like this."

"How did you find me?"

"People ... people you dont know, in England, told me where you worked. But they said you didnt live at the address listed with your employer, so I had to call you here."

"They were so interested they inquired where I lived?"

"Yes. Its part of what I have to tell you."

"Why were they interested in me?"

"Ill tell you when I see you. I have to tell you."

"Tell me now."

"Not on the phone."

There was a pause. When the girl spoke, her words were clipped, precise ... afraid. "Why exactly do you wish to see me? What can there be thats so urgent between us?"

"It concerns your family. Both our families. Ive seen your sister. Ive tried to locate your brother-"

"Ive spoken to neither in over a year," interrupted Helden Tennyson. "I cant help you."

"What we have to talk about goes back over thirty years."

"No!"

"Theres money involved. A great deal of money."

"I live adequately. My needs are-"

"Not only for you," pressed Noel, cutting her off. "For thousands. Everywhere."

Again there was the pause. When she spoke, she spoke softly. "Does this concern events ... people going back to the war?"

"Yes." Was he getting through to her at last?

"Well meet," said Helden.

"Can we arrange it so we ... we-" He was not sure how to phrase it without frightening her.

"So we wont be seen by those watching for us? Yes."

"How?"

"Ive had experience. Do exactly as I say. Where are you?"

"At the Le Mans airport. Ill rent a car and drive up to Paris. Itll take me two or three hours."

"Leave the car in a garage and take a taxi to Montmartre. To the Sacre-Coeur cathedral. Go inside to the far end of the church, to the chapel of Louis the Ninth. Light a candle and place it first in one holder, then change your mind and place it in another. Youll be met by a man who will take you outside, up to the square, to a table at one of the street cafes. Youll be given instructions."

"We dont have to be that elaborate. Cant we just meet at a bar? Or a restaurant?"

"Its not for your protection, Mr. Holcroft, but mine. If youre not who you imply you are, if youre not alone, I wont see you. Ill leave Paris tonight and youll never find me."

14.

The granite, medieval splendor of Sacre-Coeur rose in the night sky like a haunting song of stone. Beyond the enormous bronze doors, an infinite cavern was shrouded in semidarkness, flickering candles playing a symphony of shadows on the walls.

From near the altar, he could hear the strains of a Te Deum Laudamus. A visiting choir of monks stood in isolated solemnity, singing quietly.

Noel entered the dimly lit circle beyond the apse that housed the chapels of the kings. He adjusted his eyes to the dancing shadows and walked along the balustrades that flanked the entrances to the small enclosures. The rows of scattered candles provided just enough light for him to read the inscription: LOUIS IX. Louis the Pious, Louis the Just, Son of Aquitaine, Ruler of France, Arbiter of Christendom.

Pious.... Just.... Arbiter.

Was Helden von Tiebolt trying to tell him something?

He inserted a coin in the prayer box, removed a thin tapered candle from its receptacle, and held it to the flame of another nearby. Following instructions, he placed it in a holder, then seconds later removed it and inserted it in another several rows away.

A hand touched his arm, fingers gripped his elbow, and a voice whispered into his ear from the shadows behind him.

"Turn around slowly, monsieur. Keep your hands at your side."

Holcroft did as he was told. The man stood not much over five feet six or seven, with a high forehead and thinning dark hair. He was in his early thirties, Noel guessed, and pleasant-looking, the face pale, even soft. If there was anything particularly noticeable about him, it was his clothes; the dim light could not conceal the fact that they were expensive.

An aura of elegance emanated from the man, heightened by the mild fragrance of cologne. But he acted neither elegantly nor softly. Before Noel knew what was happening, the mans hands were jabbed into both sides of his chest, and strong fingers spanned the cloth in rapid movements, descending to his belt and the pockets of his trousers.

Holcroft jerked backwards.

"I said, be still!" the man whispered.

In the candlelight, by the chapel of Louis IX, in the cathedral of Sacre-Coeur, on the top of Montmartre, Noel was checked for a weapon.

"Follow me," said the man. "I will walk up the street to the square; stay quite far behind. I will join two friends at an outside table at one of the street cafes, probably Boheme. Walk around the square; take your time; look at the artists work; do not hurry. Then come to the table and sit with us. Greet us as if we are familiar faces, not necessarily friends. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

If this was the way to reach Helden von Tiebolt, so be it. Noel stayed a discreet distance behind the man, the fashionably cut overcoat not hard to follow among the less elegant clothes of the tourists.

They reached the crowded square. The man stood for a moment, lighting a cigarette, then proceeded across the street to a table beyond the sidewalk, behind a planter filled with shrubbery. As he had said, there were two people at the table. One was a man dressed in a ragged field jacket, the other a woman in a black raincoat, a white scarf around her neck. The scarf contrasted with her very dark, straight hair, as dark as the black raincoat. She wore tortoise-shell glasses, framed intrusions on a pale face with no discernible makeup. Noel wondered if the plain-looking woman was Helden von Tiebolt. If she was, there was little resemblance to her sister.

He started his stroll around the square, pretending interest in the artworks on display everywhere. There were canvases with bold dashes of color and heavy, un-thought-out lines, and bulging wide eyes of charcoal-rendered children ... cuteness and swiftness and artificiality. There was little of merit; nor was there meant to be. This was the tourist marketplace, the bazaar where the bizarre was for sale.

Nothing had changed in the Montmartre, thought Holcroft, as he threaded his way around the last turn toward the cafe.

He walked by the planter and nodded at the two men and the woman seated at the table beyond. They nodded back; he proceeded to the entrance, walked in, and returned to the "familiar faces, not necessarily friends." He sat down in the empty chair; it was beside the dark-haired woman with the tortoise-shell glasses.

"Im Noel Holcroft," he said to no one in particular.

"We know," answered the man in the field jacket, his eyes on the crowds in the square.

Noel turned to the woman. "Are you Helden von-? Excuse me, Helen Tennyson?"

"No, Ive never met her," replied the dark-haired woman, looking intently at the man in the field jacket. "But I will take you to her."

The man in the expensive overcoat turned to Holcroft. "You alone?"

"Of course. Can we get started? Helden ... Tennyson ... said Id be given instructions. Id like to see her, talk for a while, and then find a hotel. I havent had much sleep during the past few days." He started to get up from the table.

"Sit down!" The woman spoke sharply.

He sat, more out of curiosity than in response to command. And then he had the sudden feeling that these three people were not testing him; they were frightened. The elegantly dressed man was biting the knuckle of his index finger, staring at something in the middle of the square. His companion in the field jacket had his hand on his friends arm, his gaze leveled in the identical direction. They were looking at someone, someone who disturbed them profoundly.

Holcroft tried to follow their line of sight, tried to peer between the crisscrossing figures that filled the street in front of the cafe. He stopped breathing. Across the street were the two men he thought he had eluded at Le Mans. It didnt make sense! No one had followed him off the plane.

"Its them," he said.

The elegantly dressed man turned his head swiftly; the man in the field jacket was slower, his expression disbelieving; the dark-haired woman studied him closely.

"Who?" she asked.

"Those two men over there, near the entrance to the restaurant. Ones in a light topcoat, the others carrying a raincoat over his arm."

"Who are they?"

"They were at Orly this afternoon; they were waiting for me. I flew to Le Mans to get away from them. Im almost sure theyre British agents. But how did they know I was here? They werent on the plane. No one followed me; Id swear to it!"

The three exchanged glances; they believed him, and Holcroft knew why. He had picked out the two Englishmen himself, volunteered the information before being confronted with it.

"If theyre British, what do they want with you?" asked the man in the field jacket.

"Thats between Helden von Tiebolt and myself."

"But you think they are British?" pressed the man in the jacket.

"Yes."

"I hope youre right."

The man in the overcoat leaned forward. "What do you mean you flew to Le Mans? What happened?"

"I thought I could throw them off. I was convinced I had. I bought a ticket to Marseilles. I made it clear to the girl at the counter that I had to get to Marseilles, and then picked a flight that had stops. The first was Le Mans, and I got off. I saw them questioning her. I never said anything about Le Mans!"

"Dont excite yourself," said the man in the field jacket. "It only draws attention."

"If you think they havent spotted me, youre crazy! But how did they do it?"

"Its not difficult," said the woman.

"You rented a car?" asked the elegantly dressed man.

"Of course. I had to drive back to Paris."

"At the airport?"

"Naturally."

"And naturally, you asked for a map. Or at least directions, no doubt mentioning Paris. I mean, you were not driving to Marseilles."

"Certainly, but lots of people do that."

"Not so many, not at an airport that has flights to Paris. And none with your name. I cant believe you have false papers."

Holcroft was beginning to understand. "They checked," he said in disgust.

"One person on a telephone for but a few minutes," said the man in the field jacket. "Less, if you were reported having left the plane at Le Mans."

"The French would not miss the opportunity of selling an empty seat," added the man in the elegant coat. "Do you see now? There are not so many places that rent cars at airports. The make, the color, the license, would be given. The rest is simple."

"Why simple? In all Paris, to find one car?"