"Not in Paris, monsieur. On the road to Paris. There is but one main highway; it is the most likely to be used by a foreigner. You were picked up outside of Paris."

Noels astonishment was joined by a sense of depression. His ineptness was too apparent. "Im sorry. Im really sorry."

"You did nothing intentionally," said the elegant man, his concentration back on the Englishmen, who were now seated in the first booth of the restaurant in the middle of the square. He touched the arm of the man in the field jacket. "Theyve sat down."

"I see."

"What are we going to do?" asked Holcroft.

"Its being done," answered the dark-haired woman. "Do exactly what we tell you to do."

"Now," said the man in the expensive coat.

"Get up!" ordered the woman. "Walk with me out into the street and turn right. Quickly!" Bewildered, Holcroft rose from his chair and left the cafe, the womans fingers clasped around his arm. They stepped off the curb.

"To the right!" she repeated.

He turned to his right.

"Faster!" she said.

He heard a crash of glass behind them, then angry shouts. He turned and looked back. The two Englishmen had left the booth, colliding with a waiter. All three were covered with wine.

"Turn right again!" commanded the woman. "Into the doorway!"

He did as he was told, shouldering his way past a crowd of people in the entrance of yet another cafe. Once inside, the woman stopped him; he whirled around instinctively and watched the scene in the square.

The Englishmen were trying to disengage themselves from the furious waiter. The man in the topcoat was throwing money on the table. His companion had made better progress; he was under the trellis, looking frantically to his left-in the direction Holcroft and the girl had taken.

Noel heard shouts; he stared in disbelief at the source. Not twenty feet from where the agents stood was a dark-haired woman in a shiny black raincoat, wearing thick tortoise-shell glasses and a white scarf around her neck. She stood yelling at someone loudly enough to draw the attention of everyone around her.

Including the Englishmen.

She stopped abruptly and began running up the crowded street, toward the south end of Montmartre. The British agents took up the chase. Their progress was slowed unexpectedly by a number of young people in jeans and jackets who seemed to be purposely blocking the Englishmen. Furious shouts erupted; then he could hear the shrill whistles of the gendarmes.

Montmartre became pandemonium.

"Come! Now!" The dark-haired woman-the one at his side-grabbed Noels arm again, and again propelled him into the street. "Turn left!" she ordered, pushing him through the crowds. "Back where we were."

They approached the table behind the planter box. Only the man in the expensive overcoat remained; he stood up as they drew near.

"There may be others," he said. "We dont know. Hurry!"

Holcroft and the woman continued running. They reached a side street no wider than a large alley; it was lined with small shops on both sides, the dimly lit storefronts providing the only light in the block.

"This way!" said the woman, now holding Noels hand, running beside him. "The car is on the right. The first one by the corner!"

It was a Citron; it looked powerful but undistinguished. There were layers of dirt on the body, the wheels were filthy and caked with mud. Even the windows had a film of dust on them.

"Get in the front! Drive," commanded the woman, handing him a key. "Ill stay in the back seat."

Holcroft climbed in, trying to orient himself. He started the engine. The vibrations caused the chassis to tremble. It had an outsized motor, designed for a heavier car, guaranteeing enormous speed for a lighter one.

"Go straight toward the bottom of the hill!" said the woman behind him. "Ill tell you where to turn."

The next forty-five minutes were blurred into a series of plunges and sudden turns. The woman issued directions at the last second, forcing Noel to turn the wheel violently in order to obey. They sped into a highway north of Paris from a twisting entrance road that caused the Citron to lurch sideways, careening off the mound of grass that was the center island. Holcroft held the wheel with all his strength, first straightening the car and then weaving between two nearly parallel cars ahead.

"Faster!" screamed the dark-haired woman in the back seat. "Cant you go faster?"

"Jesus! Were over ninety-five!"

"Keep looking in your mirrors! Ill watch the side roads! And go faster!"

They drove for ten minutes in silence, the wind and the steady high-pitched hum of the tires maddening. It was all maddening, thought Noel as he shifted his eyes from the windshield to the rearview mirror to the side-view mirror, which was caked with dirt. What were they doing? They were out of Paris; whom were they running from now? There was no time to think; the woman was screaming again.

"The next exit; thats the one!"

He barely had time to brake and turn the car into the exit. He screeched to a halt at the stop sign.

"Keep going! To the left!"

The split seconds of immobility were the only pause in the madness. It began again: the accelerated speed over the dark country roads, the sudden turns, the commands barked harshly in his ear.

The moonlight that had washed over the splendor of Sacre-Coeur now revealed stretches of rock-hewn farmland. Barns and silos loomed in irregular silhouettes; small houses with thatched roofs appeared and disappeared.

"Theres the road!" yelled the woman.

It was a dirt road angling off the tarred surface over which they traveled; the trees would have concealed it if one did not know where or when to look. Noel slowed the Citron and turned in. The entire car shook, but the voice behind him did not permit more cautious driving.

"Hurry! We have to get over the hill so our lights wont be seen!"

The hill was steep, the road too narrow for more than one vehicle. Holcroft pressed the accelerator; the Citron lurched up the primitive road. They reached the crest of the hill, Noel gripping the steering wheel as if it were uncontrollable. The descent was rapid; the road curved to the left and flattened out. They were level again.

"No more than a quarter of a mile now," said the woman.

Holcroft was exhausted; the palms of his hands were soaked. He and the woman were in the loneliest, darkest place he could imagine. In a dense forest, on a road unlisted on any map.

Then he saw it. A small thatched house on a flat plot of ground dug out of the forest. There was a dim light on inside.

"Stop here," was the command, but it was not rendered in the harsh voice that had hammered into his ears for nearly an hour.

Noel stopped the car directly in front of the path that led to the house. He took several deep breaths and wiped the sweat from his face, closing his eyes briefly, wishing the pain would leave his head.

"Please turn around, Mr. Holcroft," said the woman, no stridency in her tone.

He did so. And he stared through the shadows at the woman in the back seat. Gone were the shining black hair and the thick-rimmed glasses. The white scarf was still there, but now it was partially covered by long blond hair that cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face-a very lovely face-he had seen before. Not this face, but one like it; delicate features modeled lovingly in clay before a chisel was put to stone. This face was not cold and the eyes were not distant. There was vulnerability and involvement. She spoke quietly, returning his stare through the shadows.

"I am Helden von Tiebolt, and I have a gun in my hand. Now, what do you want of me?"

15.

He looked down and saw a tiny reflection of light off the barrel of the automatic. The gun was pointed at his head, the bore only inches away, her fingers curved around the trigger.

"The first thing I want," he said, "is for you to put that thing away."

"Im afraid I cant do that."

"Youre the last person on earth Id want to see hurt. Youve got nothing to fear from me."

"Your words are reassuring, but Ive heard such words before. They were not always true."

"Mine are." He looked into her eyes through the dim light, holding his gaze steady. The tenseness of her expression diminished. "Where are we?" Noel asked. "Was all that craziness necessary? The riot in Montmartre, racing around the country like maniacs. What are you running from?"

"I might ask the same question of you. Youre running, too. You flew to Le Mans."

"I wanted to avoid some people. But Im not afraid of them."

"I also avoid people, and I am afraid of them."

"Who?" The specter of the Tinamou intruded on Noels thoughts; he tried to push it away.

"You may or may not be told, depending upon what you have to say to me."

"Fair enough. Right now youre the most important person in my life. That may change when I meet your brother, but right now, its you."

"I cant imagine why. Weve never met. You said you wanted to see me over matters that could be traced back to the war."

" 'Traced back to your father would be more specific."

"I never knew my father."

"Both our fathers. Neither of us knew them."

He told her what he had told her sister, but he did not mention the men of Wolfsschanze; she was frightened enough. And he heard his words again, as if echoes from last night, in Portsea. It was only last night, and the woman he spoke to now was like the woman then-but only in appearance. Gretchen Beaumont had listened in silence; Helden did not. She interrupted him quietly, continuously, asking questions he should have asked himself.

"Did this Manfredi show you proof of his identity?"

"He didnt have to; he had the papers from the bank. They were legitimate."

"What are the names of the directors?"

"The directors?"

"Of the Grande Banque de Geneve. The overseers of this extraordinary document."

"I dont know."

"You should be told."

"Ill ask."

"Who will handle the legal aspects of this agency in Zurich?"

"The banks attorneys, I imagine."

"You imagine?"

"Is it important?"

"Its six months of your life. Id think it would be."

"Our lives."

"Well see. Im not the oldest child of Wilhelm von Tiebolt."

"I told you when I called you from Le Mans," said Holcroft, "that Id met your sister."

"And?" asked Helden.

"I think you know. Shes not capable. The directors in Geneva wont accept her."

"Theres my brother, Johann. Hes next in age."

"I know that. I want to talk about him."

"Not now. Later."

"What do you mean?"

"I mentioned on the phone that there had been an excess of urgencies in my life. There has also been an excess of lies. Im an expert in that area; I know a liar when I hear his words. You dont lie."

"Thank you for that." Noel was relieved; they had a basis for talking. It was his first concrete step. In a way, in spite of everything, he felt exhilarated. She lowered the gun to her lap.

"Now we must go inside. Theres a man who wants to speak with you."

Holcrofts exhilaration crashed with her words. He could not share Geneva with anyone but a member of the Von Tiebolt family. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Im not talking with anyone. What Ive discussed with you is between us. No one else."

"Give him a chance. He must know that you dont mean to hurt me. Or hurt others. He must be convinced that you are not part of something else."

"Part of what?"