It was late afternoon now, and the quality of light was striking. It had thickened all around, as if she had become part of a pointlllist painting. The glow in the deepening sky came from a sun already behind the western quarter.

A cool breeze was blowing. One last burst of laughter from the departing boys, a solitary balloon lofted into the encroaching evening.

The man on her bench rustled the paper as he folded it. He lit a cigarette.When he was finished smoking, he got up and left, heading toward the Rue de Rivoli.

Moments later, Lillian herself left. She strolled back along the Champs-Elysees. The vendors were closing down for the night; lovers walked arm in arm. There was a melancholy air, echoed by a young man, with hair to his shoulders, playing a Spanish guitar. Lillian dropped five francs into his upended hat, and he smiled at her, mouthing a silent, Merci, madame.

Back at the hotel, she went into the bar and ordered a Lillet on the rocks.

She stretched her legs out, for a moment savoring the appreciative glances from the women as well as the men. She slipped off her high-heeled shoes, luxuriating in the comfort of being barefoot.

Her drink came, and she sipped at it. It occurred to her, as if for the first time, that she could get up right now, go to the concierge's desk and have a table booked for her at a recommended restaurant. Then, tomorrow, she could go home. To Washington. Bellehaven. If that was home. Had it ever been? she asked herself. It depended on one's definition of home, she supposed.

For just an instant, she entertained the fantasy of doing that. But there was only a feeling of emptiness. Why, she asked herself, would anyone willingly return to purgatory? She could not think of an answer.

Instead, she picked up the edition of the International Herald Tribune that the man had left on the bench. Now there was a sense of impending quickness.

As if she were riding a horse which had just begun to gallop. She had no desire to get out of the saddle.

She opened the paper to the correct page and, as she continued to sip at her drink, read the message meant only for her.

"Howdy," Stick Haruma said. He bowed, then stuck out his hand.

Eliane shook it, startled.

"Come on in, it's pouring out there." He was wearing Levi's jeans, L. A. Gear sneakers without socks and an oversize sweatshirt with ohio state buckeyes silk-screened across the chest. He had a face that would have been nondescript except for the inner energy he exuded. Eliane found his intense animation infectious. "Hey, Mike." Stick Haruma's grin faded when he saw the bandages, the cuts and the bruises. "Who tried to erase your face?"

"It's a long story," Michael said. He slapped Stick on the back. "We haven't seen each other in more than five years," he said as he introduced the tall, thin j.a.panese to Eliane. "We met here many years ago. Stick and I were students together at the same martial-arts dojo."

"Yeah, we were real cutups in those days," Stick Haruma said. "Come on in. Mi casa es su casa, as they say in the U.S."

Stick Haruma's apartment was essentially an ell-shaped living s.p.a.ce with a loft that served as his sleeping quarters. Off the living room was a den, a kitchen and bath. All the rooms were tiny by American standards, but more than adequate to the j.a.panese way of life.

"I sure was glad to hear your voice when you called from the airport," Stick said. "You don't get back here as much as you should." He did not say a word about the sorry state of their clothes or the fact that they had arrived without any luggage. Nothing surprised Stick. "What can I get you guys? Are you hungry? How about something to drink?"

Michael laughed at Eliane's expression. "You'd better get used to the way he talks. Stick spends all his free time hanging out with the Americans in Shinjuku."

"I love everything American," Stick Haruma said. "My fondest dream is to own a 1961 Corvette. Preferably, white with red leather seats. Then I'm gonna drive it along the Ginza while I scarf down a Big Mac, french fries and a c.o.ke."

Eliane laughed in disbelief.

"He works for the U.S. emba.s.sy, translating for the diplomats," Michael said.

"It's a dirty job," Stick Haruma said, "but somebody's got to do it. Besides, they like the fact that I've got all the latest idioms down pat."

He ushered them to the sofa. "Now what'll it be? Beer, c.o.ke? Mike, your faceis a mess. That's got to smart some. If you ask me, you'd better have a scotch to kill the pain."

"That'd be fine," Michael said. "Do you mind if I make a long-distance call?"

"Use the phone upstairs," Stick Haruma said, pointing to the loft.

Michael climbed up the wooden ladder, sat on the edge of Stick's futon. He dialed Jonas's number. He felt gingerly along his cheekbone, wincing slightly.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Is Jonas there?"

"Who's speaking?"

"Michael Doss. I'm calling from Tokyo. May I speak with my uncle, please?"

"Michael, this is your grandfather Sam," General Hadley said from Jonas's study. He had come there the moment his investigators had shown up at the BITE offices. By that time, the ambulance had already arrived and the paramedics had done everything they could to revive Jonas. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, Mike, but Jonas is dead. He had a fatal heart attack about an hour ago. I'm at his house now, going through his papers."

Michael closed his eyes, but the tears squeezed through nonetheless. What will I do without Uncle Sammy? he thought. What would the Darlings have done without Nana?

"Mike?"

"Yes."

"Are you all right?" General Hadley said. "You were quiet so long. I know this must be quite a shock."

"I was just thinking."

"About Jonas. I know." He cleared his throat. "Mike, I've got a lot of work ahead of me. Whatever you wanted to tell Jonas, you can tell me."

Michael remembered what Jonas had said about BITE being closed down. But what did that matter now? Jonas was dead.

"Mike, if you've got something specific, now is the time to say it."

Michael told his grandfather everything that had happened up until a moment ago, including the existence of the Katei doc.u.ment. When he was done, Hadley was silent a long time.

When he spoke, his voice was grave. "What about Audrey? Have you found her yet?"

"No," Michael said. "But I've followed her this far into j.a.pan. I won't stop until I've found her. I'll bring her back, Sam, don't worry."

"I know you'll do your best," Hadley said. "I've already gone through Jonas's notes on your mission." He paused, cleared his throat. "I want to know, Mike-scratch that. I need to know if you will go on. I know you're not an agent. I know that as your grandfather I have no right to ask you to continue to put yourself in danger. But your father's dead, and now so is Jonas. You're the only hope we have. If you can get your hands on that Katei doc.u.ment. This is vital. If it is all you say it is, with it in hand, I have no doubt we can swing a deal."

Michael was bewildered. "What do you mean? What kind of deal?"

"Why, with the j.a.panese, of course," Hadley said. "At last we'll have something that can cause them a tremendous loss of face. It will give us untold leverage. It will bring them back to the bargaining table, it will force them to come to terms with us in this terribly dangerous trade war. It's what Jonas would have done, what I'll do. Look, Mike, there's very little time. I've been going through the BITE field reports. There has been a systematic leakage of high-level intelligence to the Soviets. The evidence now clearly points to a deep-cover Russian agent inside BITE itself. That's one of the reasons I decided to close the shop down.

"But now that I'm at Jonas's house, I can see what he was talking about. The report I commissioned has the incept date of the leak at about six years ago.

According to what Jonas uncovered shortly before his death, the leaks go back much farther than that.

"I think perhaps Jonas was beginning to suspect who the mole was. Pity he's dead.""If Jonas found the clues," Michael said, "so can you. You're not letting the matter drop, are you?"

"I'm not sure it makes sense to pursue it any further," Hadley said. "At least in this way. You see, the mole took one last ma.s.sive chunk of information-all the data on our Soviet networks, including active agents, local informants and sleepers. The retrieval of that intelligence is of paramount importance. Also, it appears that the mole has bolted with the intelligence. Most likely, he's already on the other side of the Iron Curtain."

"And that's it?" Michael was incredulous.

"What else would you have me do, son, call out the army? Sometimes you have to take your lumps, learn from your mistakes and get on with the business at hand. This appears to be one of those times." General Hadley cleared his throat. "The only ray of hope from this mess is that you have a lead on the Katei doc.u.ment. Now look, Mike, get it for me, will you? I can't begin to tell you what it would mean for us. It may be our salvation."

Takashiba Pier. Brilliant spotlights, into which moths the color of ash hurled themselves in suicidal abandon, illuminated the purling harbor waters. The light bounced off the low waves, turning the water as black and opaque as obsidian. It looked solid enough to walk on.

Pale wisps of mist crept along the ground, softening the oil-stained concrete slabs. Here, as throughout the city, the streets were arumble with trucks and articulated semis, for in Tokyo, business deliveries could only be made at night. Out in the water, scarred tankers and low-lying ships were ablaze with lights as their crews off-loaded oil and produce bound for Tokyo's varied wholesale markets, where they would be traded at first light.

It had not been difficult to fool Masashi's guards. In the bath at her house, Michiko had called the maids back in, had dressed one of them in her robes and sent her out with the other girl attending her.

"Go to my rooms," she had said to the girl. Masashi's guards never went into her rooms but, rather, stood watch outside. "Get into bed as if you are me and stay there until I return." Which, she had said to Joji, had better be before the breakfast hour, when the guards sent one of the girls in to wake her.

It began to pour almost as soon as Joji and Michiko got out of the car. He pulled the collar of his raincoat up over his neck and, keeping a firm hold on her, hurried them along the pavement. He had kept Michiko in the car for nearly fifteen minutes while he observed the nocturnal rhythms of the area.

But her anxiety was overpowering, and at last he broke off his vigil.

There was no one on the street. Several trucks lumbered by, but they neither stopped nor slowed and Joji concentrated on the building where he and Shozo had encountered Daizo. It appeared just as it had then.

He went to the door, opened it slowly. He went in first, gun at the ready.

They stood quite still.

Joji breathing in the same fish-and-oil fumes until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. "Do you hear anyone?" he whispered. Michiko might be blind, but her other senses were, he knew, far keener than his. She shook her head.

The tiny vestibule, the nearly vertical flight of stairs, the shabby walls and ceiling, materialized slowly from out of the darkness. He could hear the rain beating against the door like a drunken vagrant.

The door had creaked slightly on opening. But aside from that, they had made no sound since coming in off the street. He could hear a humming, as of an engine, and a slight vibration coming up through the floorboards. But that was all.

Keeping to the extreme inside of the stairs, they ascended slowly. Every three steps or so, they paused, listening still. The humming was so low now that he could barely discern it. The vibration bad lessened as well.

Halfway up, he directed all his concentration on the hallway at the top of the stairs. There was a nimbus of pale light there, no doubt one of the streetlights coming in through a window. To the right, he knew, was the large, vacant room into which Shozo had disappeared, blasting away with his sawed-off shotgun. Joji smiled at the thought. Loyal Shozo.He turned to Michiko. "I want you to stay here," he said in her ear. Did not wait for a reply, but crept upward, a step at a time. Rain, drumming on the flat concrete roof, quickly became an overpowering sound. He took the last five stairs very quickly.

Now he was in the hallway. He turned left, but there was only blackness. To the right, the watery light. He went in that direction.

In the vast room, the sound of the downpour was very loud. Joji could see why.

The windows along the far side were open. Rain dribbled onto the floor, making puddles streaked with pale color as they reflected the arc lights from outside.

Joji crept out into the semidarkness. He could see the closed door behind which he had seen Tori held prisoner. He moved cautiously toward it, keeping to the shadows as best he could.

When he was three steps away from the door, he prepared himself. Put his face close to the door and said loudly, "Open up! Masashi-san wishes to speak to the little girl!" Rapping on the door with the b.u.t.t of the pistol.

The door swung open at his touch, and Joji's heart sank. It wasn't locked. He stepped into the room.

It was deserted.

"Hey, buddy, what happened?" Stick Haruma asked. He handed Michael a gla.s.s with scotch and ice. "You look like you've just seen something that goes clank in the night."

"Michael?" Eliane reached for him. "Are you all right?"

Michael, at the foot of the ladder to the loft, gulped the liquor in a convulsive gesture. "My uncle's dead," he said tonelessly.

"You mean Uncle Sammy?" Stick Haruma shook his head. "I'm sorry, buddy. I remember that old bird. I liked him."

Eliane was looking from one to the other, careful to keep her emotions under control.

"Yeah," Stick Haruma said. "Old Jonas Sammartin was the last of a breed."

"How did it happen, Michael?" Eliane asked.

"A heart attack. He keeled over in his office."

"Just like that, huh?" Stick Haruma poured Michael another shot of scotch.

"Drink up, Mike. Life is fleeting. You never knew when it's your time to check into the astral plane." He lifted his gla.s.s, clinked it first against Michael's, then Eliane's. "Let's all toast Uncle Sammy. He was a h.e.l.luva guy."

Michael drank the scotch mechanically, not feeling it at all. "I've got to get out of here for a while," he said to no one in particular.

Eliane took a step toward him, but Stick made a motion to hold her back.

"Whatever you say, buddy," Stick said. "Sometimes it's better to be alone."

But as soon as Michael had left, Stick turned to Eliane and said in j.a.panese, "I'm going to keep an eye on him. Stay here until we get back. I know something serious is going on, otherwise Mike would have brought a present, nehT'

Eliane nodded. j.a.panese custom dictated that presents be brought for a wide variety of everyday events. Coming to a friend's house was only one of many.

To fail to do so was a serious breach of etiquette.

"It's very serious," she said.

He nodded absently, repeating, "Stay here," as he went out the door.

How does one find another human being in a city of ten million souls crowded together like lemmings? The sidewalks of Tokyo were choked with people, the streets strangling in traffic so thick it barely moved. In winter the secondhand b.u.t.ton stores did a land-office business; the b.u.t.tons of one's overcoat were continually being ripped off by the crush of people. In summer it was a futile effort to carry one's picnic lunch to the park. Invariably, the food would be smashed flat by the crush of the ma.s.ses of people long before one arrived.

As if this were not enough, Tokyo was laid out in no discernible pattern. It was a literal maze of great wide avenues and twisting side streets. No building address was ever posted, so that one continually saw even long-timeTokyo residents asking for directions at the local neighborhood police precincts.

As he wandered through the dense throngs, Michael was appalled by the congestion of human beings and mechanical conveyances. Stick had been right, he thought. It had been a long time since he had been here. Of course he remembered Tokyo as being crowded, but memories were often difficult to a.s.sess. This reality stunned him. There was so little s.p.a.ce for so many people! He had heard about but had never seen the so-called capsule hotels popular with the frugal j.a.panese businessmen throughout the country. Instead of a room, one climbed into a capsule of approximately six by four feet. It contained at futon on which to sleep, a light and a clock radio. j.a.panese did not complain about such quarters, which would drive an American into a frenzy.

Overcrowding was a fact of life in j.a.pan, something with which one grew up.

Michael stopped to look into a department-store window. It was filled with colored lights, winking and glowing. His gaze shifted, and he saw Stick Haruma's reflection.

"You forgot an umbrella," Stick said, holding his opened one over their heads.

"How you doing, pal?"

Michael shook his head. "I don't know."

"Come on," Stick said. "Let's grab a bite."