"I think we both know what you mean," interrupted Holcroft, covering her hand with his. "Feel free to have a right. I think I like it."

"You make me feel foolish."

"Do I? Its the last thing I want to make you feel." He pulled back his hand, and followed her glance out the window. She was looking at the small stone pond on the terrace, but his attention did not remain where hers did. His gaze rose to several groups of tourists strolling in the Barbizon street beyond the gates of the restaurant. The man with the light-brown hair and pockmarked face was standing motionless on the far sidewalk. A cigarette was in his mouth, what appeared to be an artists brochure in his hands. But the man was not looking at the brochure. His head was raised slightly, his eyes angled over at the entrance of the restaurant.

It was time to make his move, thought Noel. His rage was rekindled; he wanted that man.

"Ive got an idea," he said as casually as he could. "I saw a poster by the door that-in my schoolboy French-I think said Fte dHiver. Someplace called Montereau-something-or-other. Isnt that a kind of carnival?"

"The fte is, not the village. Its about seven or eight miles south of here, I think."

"What is it? The carnival, I mean."

"Ftes dhiver? Theyre quite common and usually run by the local churches. As a rule, theyre associated with a saints day. Its like a flea market."

"Lets go."

"Really?"

"Why not? It might be fun. Ill buy you a present."

Helden looked at him quizzically. "All right," she said.

The bright afternoon sunlight bounced off the side-view mirror in harsh reflections, causing Holcroft to squint and blink repeatedly, trying to rid his eyes of blind spots. The dark-green Fiat appeared now and then. It was far behind them, but never out of sight for very long.

He parked the car behind a church, which was the focal point of the small town. Together he and Helden walked around the rectory to the front and into the crowds.

The village square was typically French, the cobblestone streets spreading out like irregular spokes from an imperfect wheel, old buildings and winding sidewalks everywhere. Stalls were set up in no discernible order, their awnings in various stages of disrepair, crafts and foodstuffs of all descriptions piled on counters. Shiny platters and a profusion of oilcloth caught the rays of sun; shafts of light shot through the crowd. This fte was not aimed at the tourist trade. Foreigners belonged to the spring and summer months.

The man with the pockmarked face was standing in front of a stall halfway across the square. He was munching on a piece of pastry, his eyes darting in Holcrofts direction. The man did not know he had been spotted; Noel was certain of that. He was far too casual, too intent on eating. He had his targets under surveillance; all was well. Holcroft turned to Helden, at his side.

"I see the present I want to get you!" he shouted.

"Dont be silly...."

"Wait here! Ill be back in a few minutes."

"Ill be over there"-she pointed to her right-"at the pewter display."

"Fine. See you soon."

Noel began edging his way through the crowd. If he could weave enough, slouch enough, and make sufficiently quick movements, he could reach the edge of the mass of colliding bodies without the light-haired mans seeing him. Once on the cobblestone sidewalk beyond the crowd, he could inch his way around to within yards of the pastry stall.

He reached the sidewalk; the man had not seen him get there. He had ordered another piece of pastry and was eating it absently, rising on the balls of his feet, peering anxiously over the heads of the crowd. Abruptly, he seemed to relax and settle back, his attention only half on his targets. He had spotted Helden; apparently he was convinced that if he could see her, her companion would not be far away.

Noel feigned a suddenly lame ankle and limped around the border of the crowd, his new injury allowing him to bend over in pain. There was no way the man could see him now.

Noel was directly behind the pastry stall, no more than ten yards from it. He watched the man closely. There was something primitive about him as he stood there motionless, eating deliberately, every now and then stretching to make sure his quarry was still in sight. It struck Holcroft that he was watching a predator. He could not see its eyes, but somehow he knew they were cold and alert. The thought made him angry, raising images in his mind of such a man seated behind a driver, a gun perhaps at the drivers head, waiting for Richard Holcroft to emerge on a New York sidewalk. It was the sense of ice-cold, deadly manipulation that enraged him.

Noel lunged into the crowd, his right hand gripping the automatic in his pocket, his left extended in front of him, fingers taut. When Noel touched him, it would be a grip the light-haired man would never forget.

Suddenly he was blocked. Blocked! As he parted the shoulders of a man and a woman in front of him, a third figure met him head on, cross-checking him with its body, its face turned away. He was being stopped deliberately!

"Get out of my way! Goddammit, let go of me!"

He could see that his shouts, or his English, or both, had alarmed the light-haired man, just feet away, who spun in place, dropping his pastry. His eyes were wild; his face was flushed. He spun again and forced his way through the crowd, away from Noel.

"Get out of-!" Holcroft could feel it before he saw it. Something had sliced through his jacket, ripping the lining above his left pocket. He looked down, his eyes unbelieving. A knife had been thrust at his side; had he not twisted his body, it would have penetrated!

He grabbed the wrist holding the knife, pushing it away, afraid to let go, crashing his shoulder up into the chest of the man who held it. Still the man kept his face hidden. Who was he? There was no time to think or wonder; he had to get the terrible knife away!

Noel screamed. He bent over, his enemys wrist vised in both his hands, the blade thrusting about in the crowded space, his whole body writhing, twisting into those surrounding him. He yanked the fist with the blade extending from it, then smashed it down with his full weight, falling to the street as he did so. The blade fell away, clattering on the stone.

Something crashed into his neck. Suddenly dazed, he still knew what it was; he had been hit with an iron pipe. He lay curled up in terror and confusion, but he could not stay down! Instinct made him lurch up; fear made him hold his place, waiting for an attack, prepared to fend it off. And rage made him seek out his attackers.

They were gone. The body that belonged to the unseen face was gone. The knife on the ground was gone! And all around him people backed away, staring at him as if he were deranged.

My God! he thought, with a terrible awareness. If they would kill him, they would kill Helden! If the man with the pockmarked face was protected by killers, and those killers knew he had spotted their charge, they would assume that Helden had spotted him, too. They would go after her! They would kill her, because she was part of his trap!

He broke his way through the circle of onlookers, and dodged a hundred angry arms and hands in the direction he instinctively remembered shed indicated only minutes before. A stall that was selling some kind of pitchers, or plates, or ... pitchers, plates, pewter. That was it! A stall with pewter. Where was it?

It was there, but she was not. She was nowhere to be seen. He ran up to the counter of the stall and shouted.

"A woman! A blond woman was here!"

"Pardon? Je ne parle pas-"

"Une femme.... Aux cheveux blonds. Elle a ete ici!"

The vendor shrugged and continued polishing a small bowl.

"Oest elle?" shouted Holcroft.

"Vous tes fou! Fou!" yelled the stallkeeper. "Voleur! Police!"

"Non! Sil vous plat! Une femme aux-"

"Ah," broke in the vendor. "Une blonde. Dans ce sens." He gestured to his left.

Holcroft pushed himself away from the stall and raced into crowds again. He pulled at overcoats and jackets, making a path for himself. Oh, Christ, he had killed her! His eyes searched everywhere, every corridor, every pair of eyes, every thatch of hair. She was nowhere.

"Helden!"

Suddenly, a fist hammered into his right kidney, and an arm shot over his shoulder, locking itself around his neck, choking the air out of his throat. He slammed his right elbow into the body of his assailant, now behind him, now dragging him backward through the crowd. Gasping for air, he jammed his left elbow into the hard, twisting figure holding him, then his right again. He had caught his attacker in the rib cage; the lock around his throat loosened for an instant, and that instant was enough. He spun to his left, his fingers digging into the forearm around his neck, and pulled downward, throwing his assailant over his hip. Both men fell to the ground.

Noel saw the face! Beneath the unruly crop of red hair was the small scar on the forehead, and beneath it the angry blue eyes. The man was the younger of the two MI-Five agents who had questioned him in his London hotel. Noels rage was complete; the madness based in a terrible error had gone unchecked. British Intelligence had intruded, and that intrusion might well have cost Helden her life.

But why? Why here in an obscure French village? He had no answers. He knew only that this man whose throat he now clutched was his enemy, as dangerous to him as the Rache or the ODESSA.

"Get up!" Holcroft struggled to his feet and pulled at the man. His mistake was in momentarily releasing the agent. Without warning, a paralyzing blow hammered into his stomach. His eyes spun out of focus, and for several moments he was aware only of being yanked through a sea of astonished faces. Suddenly he was slammed against the wall of a building; he could hear the impact of his head on the hard surface.

"You goddamn fool! What the devil do you think youre doing? You were nearly killed back there!"

The MI-Five man did not scream, but he might as well have, so intense was his tone. Noel focused his eyes; the agent had him pinned. The mans forearm was again pressed against his throat.

"You son of a bitch!" He could barely whisper the words. "Youre the ones who tried to kill me...."

"Youre a certifiable lunatic, Holcroft! The Tinamou wouldnt touch you. Ive got to get you out of here."

"The Tinamou? Here?"

"Lets go!"

"No! Wheres Helden?"

"Certainly not with us! Do you think were crazy?"

Noel stared at the man; he was telling the truth. It was all insane. "Then someones taken her! Shes gone!"

"If shes gone, she went willingly," said the agent. "We tried to warn you. Leave it alone!"

"No, youre wrong! There was a man-with pockmarks on his face ..."

"The Fiat?"

"Yes! Him. He was following us. I went after him and his men caught me. They tried to kill me!"

"Come with me," ordered the agent, grabbing Holcrofts arm and propelling him down the sidewalk.

They reached a dark narrow alleyway between two buildings. No ray of sunlight penetrated; everything was in shadow. The alley was lined with garbage cans. Beyond the third garbage can on the right Noel could see a pair of legs. The rest of the figure was hidden by the receptacle.

The agent pushed Noel into the alley; four or five steps were all that were needed to get a clear view of the upper part of the body.

At first glance, the man with the pockmarked face appeared to be drunk. In his hand he clutched a bottle of red wine; it had spilled into the crotch of his trousers. But it was a different red from the stain that had spread over his chest.

The man had been shot.

"Theres your killer," said the agent. "Now will you listen to us? Go back to New York. Tell us what you know and leave it alone."

Noels mind churned; mists of confusion enveloped him. There was violent death in the skies, death in New York, death in Rio, death here in a small French village. The Rache, the ODESSA, the survivors of Wolfsschanze....

Nothing is as it was for you....

He turned to the MI-Five man, his voice no more than a whisper. "Dont you understand? I cant...."

There was a sudden skirmish at the end of the alleyway. Two figures raced by, one propelling the other. Commands were shouted-guttural, harsh, the words not distinguishable but the violence clear. Cries for help were cut short by the sound of flesh against flesh, vicious slaps repeated again and again. And then the blurred figures were gone, but Holcroft could hear the scream.

"Noel! Noel!..."

It was Helden! Holcroft found his mind again and knew what he had to do. With all his strength, he slammed his shoulder into the side of the agent, sending him crashing over the garbage can that concealed the dead body of the man with the pockmarked face.

He ran out of the alley.

21.

The screams continued, how far away he could not tell, so boisterous were the crowds in the village square. Music issued from a number of concertinas and cornets. Pockets of space were formed for couples, skipping, twirling, turning, in countryside dances. The fte dhiver was now a carnival.

"Noel! Noel...."

Up the curving sidewalk to the left of the square-the cries came from that direction! Holcroft ran wildly, colliding with a pair of lovers embracing against a wall. There.

"Noel!"

He was on a side street lined with three-story buildings. He raced down it, hearing the scream again, but no words, no name, only a scream cut short by the impact of a blow that produced a cry of pain.

Oh, God, he had to find- A door! A door was partially open; it was the entrance to the fourth building on the right. The scream had come from there!

He ran to it, remembering as he drew near that he had a gun in his pocket. He reached in and pulled it out, thinking as he held it awkwardly in his hand that he had never really looked at the weapon. He did so now, and for an instant he stopped and stared at it.

He knew little about handguns, but he knew this one. It was a Budischowsky TP-70 Autoloading Pistol, the same type of gun Sam Buonoventura had lent him in Costa Rica. The coincidence gave him no confidence; rather, it made him sick. This was not his world.

He checked the safety and pulled the door open, staying out of sight. Inside was a long, narrow, dimly lit corridor. On the left wall, spaced perhaps twelve feet from each other, were two doors. From what he remembered of this type of structure he had to presume that there were identically spaced doors on the right wall; he could not see them from where he stood.

He darted into the entrance, the gun held steady in front of him. There were the two doors on the right wall. Four doors. Behind one of them Helden was a captive. But which one? He walked to the first door on the left and put his ear to it.

There was a scratching sound, erratic, unfamiliar. He had no idea what it was. Cloth, fabric ... the tearing of cloth? He put his hand on the knob and twisted it; the door swung free and he opened it, his weapon in firing position.

Across the dark room was an old woman on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She was in profile, her gaunt features sagging, her arm working in circles on the soft wood. She was so old she neither saw him nor heard him, He closed the door.

A black ribbon was nailed to the door on the right. A death had taken place behind that door; a family was in mourning. A death behind that door. The thought was too unnerving; he listened.

This was it! A struggle was going on. Heavy breathing, movement, tension; inside that room there was desperation. Helden was behind that door!

Noel stepped back, his automatic leveled, his right foot raised. He took a deep breath, and, as if his foot were a battering ram, he drove it into the wood to the left of the knob. The force of the blow sent the door crashing inward.

Inside, on a filthy bed, were two naked teenagers, a dark-haired boy on top of a fat, fair-skinned girl, the girls legs spread up toward the ceiling, the boy lying between them, both hands on her breasts. At the sound of the crash and the sight of the stranger, the girl screamed. The boy spun off her, rolling onto the floor, his mouth open in shock.

The crash! The sound of the crash was an alarm. Holcroft ran into the corridor and raced to the next door on the left. There was no time to be concerned about anything but finding Helden. He slammed his shoulder into the door, twisting the knob awkwardly with his left hand, his right gripping the handle of the gun. There was no need for force; the door gave way.