THE SIGMA PROTOCOL [030-066-4.9]By:  Robert LudlumCategory:  Fiction ThrillerSynopsis:Worldwide, old men whose only association is an OSS filemarked Sigma are being knocked off.  Having narrowly avoided being oneof them, investment banker Ben Hartman teams with U.S. government agentAnna Navarro to discover why.  Written by a master of the internationalthriller.  American investment banker Ben Hartman- son of the legendaryMax Hartman, who built a financial empire from less than nothing- is ona vacation in Switzerland when he is approached by a childhood friend,who promptly tries to kill him.  Narrowly surviving, Ben discovers thatthe body of his former friend- as well as all evidence of theconfrontation- has disappeared.  But the attempts against his life arejust beginning.  Anna Navarro, a U.S. government agent, is sent tosurreptitiously look into a string of deaths and murders of old menaround the world.  The only thing the men have in common is an OSS filemarked with the code word Sigma.  Brought together by accident, Hartmanand Navarro must uncover the secrets long-buried under the name Sigma-truths that threaten everything they think they know about themselves,their families, and even history itself.  Not only are their lives andthe lives of everyone they hold dear at stake, but so is the veryfuture of the world.Also by Robert LudlumThe Cassandra Compact (with Philip Shelby)The Prometheus DeceptionThe Hades Factor (with Gayle Lynds)The Matarese CountdownThe Apocalypse WatchThe Road to OmahaThe Bourne UltimatumThe Icarus AgendaThe Bourne SupremacyThe Aquitaine ProgressionThe Parsifal MosaicThe Bourne IdentityThe Matarese CircleThe Gemini ContendersThe Holcroft CovenantThe Chancellor ManuscriptThe Road to GandolfoThe Rhinemann ExchangeThe Cry of the HalidonTrevayneThe Matlock PaperThe Osterman WeekendThe Scarlatti InheritanceST.  MARTIN'S PRESS & NEW YORKTHE sigma protocol.  Copyright 2001 by Myn Pyn LLC.  All rightsreserved.Printed in the United States of America.  No part of this book may beused or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permissionexcept in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles orreviews.  For information,address St.  Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.www.stmartins.comISBN 0-312-27688-5First Edition: October 200110 987654321THE SIGMA PROTOCOLCHAPTER ONE.Zurich"May I get you something to drink while you wait?"The Hotelpage was a compact man who spoke English with only a trace ofan accent.  His brass nameplate gleamed against his loden-greenuniform."No, thank you," Ben Hartman said, smiling wanly."Are you sure?  Perhaps some tea?  Coffee?  Mineral water?"  Thebellhop peered up at him with the bright-eyed eagerness of someone whohas only a few minutes left to enhance his parting tip.  "I'm terriblysorry your car is delayed.""I'm fine, really."Ben stood in the lobby of the Hotel St.  Gotthard, an elegantnineteenth-century establishment that specialized in catering to thewell heeled international businessman--and, face it, that's me, Benthought sardonically.  Now that he had checked out, he wondered idlywhether he could tip the bellhop not to carry his bags, not to followhis every move a few feet behind, like a Bengali bride, not to offerunceasing apologies for the fact that the car that was to take Ben tothe airport had not yet arrived.  Luxury hotels the world over pridedthemselves on such coddling, but Ben, who traveled quite a bit,inevitably found it intrusive, deeply irritating.  He'd spent so muchtime trying to break out of the cocoon, hadn't he?  But the cocoon--thestale rituals of privilege--had won out in the end.  The Hotelpage hadhis number, all right: just another rich, spoiled American.Ben Hartman was thirty-six, but today he felt much older.  It wasn'tjust the jet lag, though he had arrived from New York yesterday andstill felt that sense of dislocation.  It was something about being inSwitzerland again: in happier days, he'd spent a lot of time here,skiing too fast, driving too fast, feeling like a wild spirit among itsstone-faced, rule bound burghers.  He wished he could regain thatspirit, but he couldn't.  He hadn't been to Switzerland since hisbrother, Peter--his identicaltwin, his closest friend in all the world--had been killed here fouryears ago.  Ben had expected the trip to stir up memories, but nothinglike this.  Now he realized what a mistake he'd made coming back here.From the moment he'd arrived at Kloten Airport, he'd been distracted,swollen with emotion--anger, grief, loneliness.But he knew better than to let it show.  He'd done a little businessyesterday afternoon, and this morning had a cordial meeting with Dr.Rolf Grendelmeier of the Union Bank of Switzerland.  Pointless, ofcourse, but you had to keep the clients happy; glad-handing was part ofthe job.  If he was honest with himself, it was the job, and Bensometimes felt a pang at how easily he slipped into the role, that ofthe legendary Max Hartman's only surviving son, the heir presumptive tothe family fortune, and to the CEO's office at Hartman CapitalManagement, the multibillion-dollar firm founded by his father.Now Ben possessed the whole trick bag of international finance--thecloset full of Brioni and Kiton suits, the easy smile, the firmhandshake, and, most of all, the gaze: steady, level, concerned.  Itwas a gaze that conveyed responsibility, dependability, and sagacity,and that, often as not, concealed desperate boredom.Still, he hadn't really come to Switzerland to do business.  At Kloten,a small plane would take him to St.  Moritz for a ski vacation with anextremely wealthy, elderly client, the old man's wife, and hisallegedly beautiful granddaughter.  The client's arm-twisting wasjovial but persistent.  Ben was being fixed up, and he knew it.  Thiswas one of the hazards of being a presentable, well-off, "eligible"single man in Manhattan: his clients were forever trying to set him upwith their daughters, their nieces, their cousins.  It was hard to sayno politely.  And once in a while he actually met a woman whose companyhe enjoyed.  You never knew.  Anyway, Max wanted grandchildren.Max Hartman, the philanthropist and holy terror, the founder of HartmanCapital Management.  The self-made immigrant who'd arrived in America,a refugee from Nazi Germany, with the proverbial ten bucks in hispocket, had founded an investment company right after the war, andrelentlessly built it up into the multibillion-dollar firm it was now.Old Max, in his eighties and living in solitary splendor in Bedford,New York, still ran the company and made sure no one ever forgot it.It wasn't easy working for your father, but it was even harder when youhad precious little interest in investment banking, in "assetallocation"and "risk management," and in all the other mind-numbing buzzwords.Or when you had just about zero interest in money.  Which was, herealized, a luxury enjoyed mainly by those who had too much of it. Likethe Hartmans, with their trust funds and private schools and theimmense Westchester County estate.  Not to mention the twenty-thousandacre spread near the Greenbriar, and all the rest of it.Until Peter's plane fell out of the sky, Ben had been able to do whathe really loved: teaching, especially teaching kids whom most peoplehad given up on.  He'd taught fifth grade in a tough school in an areaof Brooklyn known as East New York.  A lot of the kids were trouble,and yes, there were gangs and sullen ten-year-olds as well armed asColombian drug lords.  But they needed a teacher who actually gave adamn about them.  Ben did give a damn, and every once in a while heactually made a difference to somebody's life.When Peter died, however, Ben had been all but forced to join thefamily business.  He'd told friends it was a deathbed promise exactedby his mother, and he supposed it was.  But cancer or no cancer, hecould never refuse her anyway.  He remembered her drawn face, the skinashen from another bout of chemotherapy, the reddish smudges beneathher eyes like bruises.  She'd been almost twenty years younger thanDad, and he had never imagined that she might be the first to go. Work,for the night come th she'd said, smiling bravely.  Most of the restshe left unspoken.  Max had survived Dachau only to lose a son, and nowhe was about to lose his wife.  How much could any man, howeverpowerful, stand?"Has he lost you, too?"  she had whispered.  At the time, Ben wasliving a few blocks from the school, in a sixth-floor walk-up in adecrepit tenement building where the corridors stank of cat urine andthe linoleum curled up from the floors.  As a matter of principle, herefused to accept any money from his parents."Do you hear what I'm asking you, Ben?""My kids," Ben had said, though there was already defeat in his voice."They need me.""He needs you," she'd replied, very quietly, and that was the end ofthe discussion.So now he took the big private clients out to lunch, made them feelimportant and well cared for and flattered to be cosseted by thefounder'sson.  A little furtive volunteer work at a center for "troubled kids"who made his fifth-graders look like altar boys.  And as much time ashe could grab traveling, skiing, para sailing snowboarding, orrock-climbing, and going out with a series of women while fastidiouslyavoiding settling down with any of them.Old Max would have to wait.Suddenly the St.  Gotthard lobby, all rose damask and heavy darkViennese furniture, felt oppressive.  "You know, I think I'd prefer towait outside," Ben told the Hotelpage.  The man in the loden-greenuniform simpered, "Of course, sir, whatever you prefer."Ben stepped blinking into the bright noontime sun, and took in thepedestrian traffic on the Bahnhofstrasse, the stately avenue lined withlinden trees, expensive shops, and cafes, and a procession of financialinstitutions housed in small limestone mansions.  The bellhop scurriedbehind him with his baggage, hovering until Ben disbursed a fifty-francnote and gestured for him to leave."Ah, thank you so much, sir," the Hotelpage exclaimed with feignedsurprise.The doormen would let him know when his car appeared in the cobbleddrive to the left of the hotel, but Ben was in no hurry.  The breezefrom Lake Zurich was refreshing, after time spent in stuffy, overheatedrooms where the air was always suffused with the smell of coffee and,fainter but unmistakable, cigar smoke.Ben propped his brand-new skis, Volant Ti Supers, against one of thehotel's Corinthian pillars, near his other bags, and watched the busystreet scene, the spectacle of anonymous passersby.  An obnoxious youngbusinessman braying into a cell phone.  An obese woman in a red parkapushing a baby carriage.  A crowd of Japanese tourists chatteringexcitedly.  A tall middle-aged man in a business suit with his grayinghair pulled back in a ponytail.  A deliveryman with a box of lilies,attired in the distinctive orange and black uniform ofBlumchengallerie, the upscale flower chain.  And a striking,expensively dressed young blonde, clutching a Festiner's shopping bag,who glanced generally in Ben's direction, and then glanced at him againquickly, but with a flicker of interest before averting her eyes.  Hadwe but world enough and time, thought Ben.  His gaze wandered again.The sounds of traffic were continuous but muted, drifting in from theLowenstrasse, a few hundred feet away.  Somewhere nearby a high-strungdog was yipping.  A middle-aged man wearing ablazer with an odd purple hue, a tad too stylish for Zurich.  And thenhe saw a man about his age, walking with a purposeful stride past theKoss Konditerei.  He looked vaguely familiar Very familiar.Ben did a double-take, peered more closely.  Was that--could thatreally be--his old college buddy Jimmy Cavanaugh?  A quizzical smilespread over Ben's face.Jimmy Cavanaugh, whom he'd known since his sophomore year at Princeton.Jimmy, who'd glamorously lived off-campus, smoked unfiltered cigarettesthat would have choked an ordinary mortal, and could drink anybodyunder the table, even Ben, who had something of a reputation in thatregard.  Jimmy had come from a small town in western upstate New Yorkcalled Homer, which supplied him with a storehouse of tales.  Onenight, after he taught Ben the finer points of downing Tequila shotswith beer chasers, Jimmy had him gasping for breath with his storiesabout the town sport of "cow tipping."  Jimmy was rangy, sly, andworldly, had an immense repertory of pranks, a quick wit, and the giftof gab.  Most of all, he just seemed more alive than most of the kidsBen knew: the clammy-palmed pre professionals trading tips about theentrance exams for law school or B-school, the pretentious Frenchmajors with their clove cigarettes and black scarves, the sullenburn-out cases for whom rebellion was found in a bottle of green hairdye.  Jimmy seemed to stand apart from all that, and Ben, envying himhis simple ease with himself, was pleased, even flattered by thefriendship.  As so often happens, they'd lost touch after college;Jimmy had gone off to do something at the Georgetown School of ForeignService, and Ben had stayed in New York.  Neither of them was big oncollege nostalgia, and then distance and time had done their usual job.Still, Ben reflected, Jimmy Cavanaugh was probably one of the fewpeople he actually felt like talking to just now.Jimmy Cavanaugh--it was definitely Jimmy--was now near enough that Bencould see that he was wearing an expensive-looking suit, under a tantrench coat, and smoking a cigarette.  His build had changed: he wasbroader-shouldered now.  But it was Cavanaugh for sure."Jesus," Ben said aloud.  He started down the Bahnhofstrasse towardJimmy, then remembered his Volants, which he didn't want to leaveunattended, doormen or no doormen.  He picked the skis up, hefted themover one shoulder, and walked toward Cavanaugh.  The red hair hadfaded and receded a bit, the once-freckled face was a little lined, hewas wearing a two-thousand-dollar Armani suit, and what the hell was hedoing in Zurich of all places?  Suddenly they made eye contact.Jimmy broke out in a wide grin, and he strode toward Ben, an armoutstretched, the other in the pocket of his trench coat."Hartman, you old dog," Jimmy crowed from a few yards away.  "Hey, pal,great to see you!""My God, it really is you!"  Ben exclaimed.  At the same time, Ben waspuzzled to see a metal tube protruding from his old friend's trenchcoat, a silencer, he now realized, the muzzle pointing directly up athim from waist level.It had to be some bizarre prank, good old Jimmy was always doing thatkind of thing.  Yet just as Ben jokingly threw his hands up in the airand dodged an imaginary bullet, he saw Jimmy Cavanaugh shift his righthand ever so slightly, the unmistakable motions of someone squeezing atrigger.What happened next took a fraction of a second, yet time seemed totelescope, slowing almost to a halt.  Reflexively, abruptly, Ben swunghis skis down from his right shoulder in a sharp arc, trying to scuttlethe weapon but in the process slamming his old friend hard in theneck.An instant later--or was it the same instant?--he heard the explosion,felt a sharp spray on the back of his neck as a very real bulletshattered a glass storefront just a few feet away.This couldn't be happening!Caught by surprise, Jimmy lost his balance and bellowed in pain.  As hestumbled to the ground, he flung out a hand to grab the skis.  Onehand.  The left.  Ben felt as if he'd swallowed ice.  The instinct tobrace yourself when you stumble is strong: you reach out with bothhands, and you drop your suitcase, your pen, your newspaper.  Therewere few things you wouldn't drop--few things you'd still clutch as youfell.The gun was real.Ben heard the skis clatter to the sidewalk, saw a thin streak of bloodon the side of Jimmy's face, saw Jimmy scrambling to regain hisorientation.  Then Ben lurched forward and, in a great burst of speed,took off down the street.The gun was real.  And Jimmy had fired it at him.Ben's path was obstructed by crowds of shoppers and businessmenhurrying to lunch appointments, and as he wove through the crowd hecollided with several people, who shouted protests.  Still he vaultedahead, running as he'd never run before, zigzagging, hoping that theirregular pattern would make him an elusive target.What the hell was going on?  This was madness, absolute madness!He made the mistake of glancing behind him as he ran, inadvertentlyslowing his pace, his face now a flashing beacon to a once-friend whofor some unfathomable reason seemed bent on killing him.  Suddenly,barely two feet away, a young woman's forehead exploded in a mist ofred.Ben gasped in terror.Jesus Christ!No, it couldn't be happening, this wasn't reality, this was somebizarre nightmare He saw a small scattering of stone fragments, as abullet pitted the marble facade of the narrow office building he wasracing past.  Cavanaugh was on his feet and running, now just fiftyfeet or so away from Ben, and though he had to fire in midstride,Cavanaugh's aim was still unnervingly good.He's trying to kill me, no, he's going to kill me Ben feinted suddenlyto the right, then jerked to the left, leaping forward as he did.  Nowhe ran flat out.  On the Princeton track team, he was aneight-hundred-meter man, and, fifteen years later, he knew his onlychance for survival was to find a surge of speed inside him.  Hissneakers weren't made for running, but they'd have to do.  He needed adestination, a clear goal, an endpoint: that was always the key. Think,dammit!  Something clicked in his head: he was a block away from thelargest underground shopping arcade in Europe, a garish, subterraneantemple of consumption known as Shopville, beneath and adjacent to themain train station, the Hauptbahnhof.  In his mind's eye, he saw theentrance, the bank of escalators at the Bahnhofplatz; it was alwaysquicker to enter there and walk underneath the square than to fightthrough the crowds that typically thronged the streets above.  He couldseek refuge underground in the arcade.  Only a madman would dare chasehim down there.  Ben sprinted now, keeping his knees high, his feetghosting along with great soft strides, falling back into thediscipline of the speed laps he used to devour, conscious only of thebreeze at his face.  Had he lostThe blond woman with the Festiner's bag folded up her tiny cellularphone and placed it in a pocket of her azure Chanel suit, her paleglossy lips compressed in a small moue of annoyance.  At firsteverything had gone like--well, like clockwork.  It had taken her a fewseconds to decide that the man standing in front of St.  Gotthard was aprobable match.  He was clearly in his mid-thirties, with an angularface and strong jaw, curly brown hair flecked with gray, andhazel-green eyes.  A pleasant looking fellow, she supposed, handsome,even; but not so distinctive that she had been able to ensure adefinite identification from this distance.  That was of noconsequence. The shooter they'd chosen could make the identification;they'd made sure of that.Now, however, matters seemed less than perfectly controlled.  Thetarget was an amateur; there was little chance he would survive anencounter with a professional.  Still, amateurs made her uneasy.  Theymade mistakes, but erratic, unpredictable ones, their very naivetedefying rational prediction, as the subject's evasive actions haddemonstrated.  His wild, protracted escape attempt would merelypostpone the inevitable.  And yet it was all going to take time--theone thing that was in short supply.  Sigma One would not be pleased.She glanced at her small, bejeweled wristwatch, retrieved the phone,and made one more call.Winded, his starved muscles screaming for oxygen, Ben Hartman paused atthe escalators to the arcade, knowing he had to make a split-seconddecision, I. untergeschoss shop ville read the blue overhead sign.  Thedown escalator was crowded with shoppers laden with bags and strollers;he'd have to use the up escalator, which had relatively few riders. Bencharged down it, elbowing aside a young couple who were holding handsand blocking his path.  He saw the startled looks his actions hadprovoked, looks that mingled dismay and derision.Now he raced through the underground arcade's central atrium, his feetscudding along the black rubberized floor, and he allowed himself aglimmer of hope before he realized the error he'd made.  From allaround him arose screams, frenzied shouting.  Cavanaugh had followedhim here,into this enclosed, contained space.  In the mirrored facade of ajewelry store, he caught a glimpse of muzzle fire, a burst ofyellow-white.  Instantly, a bullet tore through the burnished mahoganypanels of a travel bookstore, exposing the cheap fiberboard beneath.Everywhere was pandemonium.  An old man in a baggy suit a few feet awayclutched his throat and toppled like a bowling pin, blood drenching hisshirt front.Ben dove behind the information station, an oblong concrete-and glassstructure perhaps five feet wide, on which was mounted a list ofstores, elegant white lettering on black, a shoppers' guide in threelanguages.  A hollow explosion of glass told him that the informationbox had been hit.  Half a second later, there was a sharp crack, and apiece of concrete fell heavily from the structure, landing near hisfeet.Inches away!Another man, tall and stout in a camel-hair topcoat and a jaunty graycap, staggered a few feet past him before collapsing to the floor,dead.  He'd been shot in the chest.Amid the chaos, Ben found it impossible to distinguish Cavanaugh'sfootsteps, but, gauging his position from the reflected muzzle flash,he knew no more than a minute remained before he would be overtaken.Remaining in position behind the concrete island, he stood, to his fullsix feet, and peered around wildly, looking for new refuge.Meanwhile, the screams crescendoed.  Ahead, the arcade was crowded withpeople, shrieking, crying out hysterically, crouching and cowering,many of them trying to hide their heads beneath folded arms.Twenty feet away there were escalators marked 2 untergeschoss.  If hecould close the distance without being shot, he could get to the levelbelow.  His luck might change there.  It couldn't get any worse, hethought--then he changed his mind as he saw a widening pool of bloodflowing from the man in the camel-hair coat a few feet away.  Dammit,he had to think!  There was no way he could close the distance in time.Unless... He reached for the dead man's arm and dragged him over.Seconds remained.  He yanked off the dead man's tawny coat and grabbedthe gray cap, conscious of baleful eyes upon him from shoppers coweringnear the Western Union.  This was no time for delicacy.  Now heshrugged into the roomy overcoat, pulled the cap down hard on his head.If he was to remain alive, he would have to resist the urge to darttoward the second-level escalators like a jackrabbit: he had gonehunting enough toknow that anything that moved too abruptly was likely to be shot by anitchy-fingered gunman.  Instead, he clambered slowly to his feet,hunched, staggering, weaving like an old man who had lost blood.  Hewas now visible and supremely vulnerable: the ruse had to last justlong enough to get him to the escalator.  Maybe ten seconds.  So longas Cavanaugh thought he was a wounded bystander, he wouldn't wasteanother bullet on him.Ben's heart was hammering in his chest, his every instinct screaming athim to break into a sprint.  Not yet.  Hunched over, shoulders rounded,he staggered on with an unsteady gait, his strides as long as he couldmake them without exciting suspicion.  Five seconds.  Four seconds.Three seconds.At the escalator, which had emptied out, abandoned by the terrifiedpedestrians, the man in the bloodied camel-hair overcoat seemed tocrumple face forward, before the movement of the stairs took him out ofview.Now."Inaction had been as strenuous as exertion, and, every nerve in hisbody twitching, Ben had broken his fall with his hands.  As quietly ashe could, he raced down the remaining stairs.He heard a bellow of frustration from upstairs: Cavanaugh would now beafter him.  Every second had to count.Ben put on another burst of speed, but the second below-ground level ofthe arcade was a virtual maze.  There was no straight route of egressto the other side of the Bahnhofplatz, just a succession of byways, thewider walkways punctuated with kiosks of wood and glass that soldcellular phones, cigars, watches, posters.  To a dilatory shopper, theywere islands of interest--to him, an obstacle course.Still, they reduced the number of sight lines.  They lessened thechance of the long-distance kill.  And so they bought him time. Perhapsenough time for Ben to secure the one thing he had on his mind: ashield.He ran past a blur of boutiques: Foto Video Ganz, RestsellerBuchhandlung, Presensende Stickler, Microspot.  Kinderboutique, withits window crammed with furry stuffed animals, the display framed bygreen-and-gold-painted wood with an incised ivy pattern.  There was thechrome and plastic of a Swisscom outlet... All of them festively plyingtheir goods and services, all utterly worthless to him.  Then, straightahead, to his right, next to a Credit Suisse/Volksbank branch office,hespotted a luggage store.  He looked through the window, heaped highwith soft-sided leather suitcases--no good.  The item he was after wasinside: a large, brushed-steel briefcase.  No doubt the gleaming steelcladding was as much cosmetic as functional, but it would serve.  Itwould have to.  As Ben darted in the store, grabbed the article, andran out, he noticed that the proprietor, pale and sweating, wasjabbering hysterically in Schweitzerdeutsch on the telephone.  No onebothered to run after Ben; word of the insanity had already spread.Ben had gained a shield; he had also lost precious time.  Even as hesprang out of the luggage store, he saw its display window transformedinto an oddly beautiful spiderweb in the instant before itdisintegrated into shards.  Cavanaugh was close, so close Ben didn'tdare look around to try to locate his position.  Instead, Ben chargedforward into a crowd of shoppers emerging from Franscati, a largedepartment store at one end of the cruciform plaza.  Holding up thebriefcase, Ben lunged forward, tripping on someone's leg, regaining hisfooting with difficulty, losing a few precious moments.An explosion inches from his head: the sound of a lead bullet slamminginto the steel briefcase.  It jolted in his hands, partly from theimpact of the bullet, partly from his own muscular reflex, and Bennoticed a bulge on the steel casing facing him, as if it had been stuckby a small hammer.  The bullet had penetrated the first layer, hadalmost penetrated the second.  His shield had saved his life, but onlyjust.Everything around him had gone blurry, but he knew he was entering theteeming Halle Landesmuseum.  He also knew that carnage was stilltrailing him.Throngs of people were screaming--huddled, cringing, running--as thehorror, the gunfire, the bloodshed came closer.Ben plunged into the frenzied crowd, was swallowed up by it.  For amoment the gunfire seemed to have stopped.  He tossed the briefcase tothe floor: it had served its purpose, and its gleaming metal would nowmake him too easy to pick out of the crowd.Was it over?  Was Cavanaugh out of ammunition?  Reloading?Jostled one way, then another, Ben scanned the labyrinthine arcade foran exit, an Ausgang, through which he could disappear unseen.  MaybeI've lost him, Ben thought.  Yet he didn't dare look back again.  Nogoing back.  Only forward.Along the walkway that led to the Franscati department store, hespotteda fake-rustic sign of dark wood and gilt lettering in shrift:katz keller-bierhalle.  It hung above an alcove, an entrance to adeserted restaurant.  geschlossen, a smaller sign read.  Closed.He raced toward it, his movement camouflaged by a frenzied rush ofpeople in that general direction.  Through a faux-medieval archwaybeneath the sign, he ran into a spacious, empty dining room.  Cast-ironchains from the ceiling supported enormous wooden chandeliers; medievalhalberds and engravings of medieval nobility adorned the walls.  Themotif continued with the heavy round tables, which were crudely carvedin keeping with someone's fantasy of a fifteenth-century arsenal.On the right side of the room was a long bar, and Ben ducked behind it,gasping loudly for breath, as desperately as he tried to remain silent.His clothes were soaked with sweat.  He couldn't believe how fast hisheart was thudding, and he actually winced from the chest pain.He tapped the cabinetry in front of him; it made a hollow sound.Obviously fashioned from veneer and plaster, it was nothing that couldbe relied upon to stop a bullet.  Crouching, he made his way around acorner and to a protected stone alcove, where he could stand and catchhis breath.  As he leaned back to rest against the pillar, his headcracked into a wrought-iron lantern mounted on the stone.  He groanedinvoluntarily.  Then he examined the light fixture that had justlacerated the back of his head, and he saw that the whole thing, theheavy black iron arm attached to the ornamental housing that held thebulb, could be lifted right out of the mounting bracket.It came out with a rusty screech.  He managed to get a firm grip andheld it against his chest.And he waited, trying to slow the beating of his heart.  He knewsomething about waiting.  He remembered all those Thanksgivings spentat the Greenbriar; Max Hartman was insistent that his sons learn how tohunt, and Hank McGee, a grizzled local from White Sulfur Springs, wasgiven the job of teaching them.  How hard could it be?  he rememberedthinking: he was an ace at skeet shooting, had reason to be proud ofhis hand-eye coordination.  He let this slip to McGee, whose eyesdarkened: You think the hunt's really about shootin'?  It's aboutwaitin'.  And he fixed him with a glare.  McGee was right, of course:the waiting was the hardest part of all, and the part he wastemperamentally least suited for.Hunting with Hank McGee, he had lain in wait for his quarry.Now he was the quarry.Unless ... somehow ... he could change that.In a few moments, Ben heard approaching footsteps.  Jimmy Cavanaughentered stealthily, tentatively, glancing from side to side.  His shirtcollar was grimy and torn and bloodied from a gash on the right side ofhis neck.  His trench coat was soiled.  His flushed face was set in adetermined grimace, his eyes wild.Could this really be his friend?  What had Cavanaugh become in thedecade and a half since Ben had last seen him?  What had turned himinto a killer?Why was this happening?In his right hand Cavanaugh gripped his blue-black pistol, the teninch-long tube of a sound suppressor threaded to its barrel.  Ben,flashing back on target-practice memories from twenty years ago, sawthat it was a Walther PPK, a .32.Ben held his breath, terrified that his gasping would give him away.He drew back into the alcove, clutching the iron light fixture he hadjust torn from the wall, flattening himself out of sight as Cavanaughmade a sweep of the restaurant.  With a sudden but sure movement of hisarm Ben flung the iron lantern fixture, smashing it into Cavanaugh'sskull with an audible thud.Jimmy Cavanaugh screamed in pain, his cry high-pitched like ananimal's.  His knees buckled, and he squeezed the trigger.Ben could feel a flare of heat, a fraction of an inch away from hisear.  But now, instead of drawing back farther, or attempting to run,Ben lunged forward, slamming himself into his enemy's body, pummelinghim to the ground, Cavanaugh's skull cracking against the stonefloor.Even badly wounded, the man was a powerhouse.  A rancid miasma of sweatarose from him as he reared up and vised a massive arm around Ben'sneck, compressing his femoral artery.  Desperately, Ben reached for thegun, trying to grab it but succeeding only in wrenching the longsilencer up and back toward Cavanaugh.  With a sudden ear-shatteringexplosion the gun went off.  Ben's ears rang with a sustained squeal;his face stung from the blowback.The grip on Ben's throat loosened.  He twisted his body around, free ofthe choke hold  Cavanaugh was slumped on the ground.  With a jolt Bensaw the dark red hole just above his old friend's eyebrows, a horrificthird eye.  He was suffused with a mixture of relief and revulsion, andthe sense that nothing would ever be the same.CHAPTER TWO.Halifax, Nova Scotia, CanadaIt was still early in the evening, but already it was dark, and an icywind roared along the narrow street, down the steep hill toward theroiling waters of the Atlantic.  Fog had settled over the gray streetsof this port town, blanketing it, closing it in.  A miserable drizzlingrain had begun to fall.  The air had a salty tang.A sulfurous yellow light illuminated the ramshackle porch, the wornfront steps of a large, gray clapboard house.  A dark figure in ayellow hooded oilcloth slicker stood under the yellow light, jamminghis finger against the front door buzzer insistently, over an dover andover.  Finally there came the clicks of the safety bolts, and theweathered front door came slowly open.The face of a very old man appeared, peering out angrily.  He waswearing a stained pale blue dressing gown over rumpled white pajamas.His mouth was caved in, the baggy skin of the face pallid, the eyesgray and watery."Yes?"  the elderly man demanded in a high, raspy voice.  "What do youwant?"  He spoke with a Breton accent, a legacy of his French Acadianforebears who fished the seas beyond Nova Scotia."You've got to help me!"  cried the person in the yellow slicker.  Heshifted his weight anxiously from one foot to the other.  "Please!  Oh,God, please, you've got to help!"The old man's expression became clouded with confusion.  The visitor,though tall, looked to be in his late teens.  "What are you talkingabout?"  he said.  "Who are you?""There's been a horrible accident.  Oh, God!  Oh, Jesus!  My dad!  Mydad!  I think he's dead!"The old man pressed his narrow lips together.  "What do you want fromme?"The stranger flung a gloved hand toward the handle of the storm door,then dropped it.  "Please just let me make a call.  Let me call anambulance.  We had an accident, a terrible accident.  The car istotaled. My sister--badly hurt.  My dad was driving.  God, my parents!"The boy's voice broke.  Now he seemed more a child than a teenager."Oh, Lord, I think he's dead."Now the old man's glare seemed to soften, and he slowly pushed open thestorm door to let the stranger in.  "All right," he said.  "Come in.""Thank you," the boy exclaimed as he entered.  "Just for a moment.Thank you so much."The old man turned around and led the way into a dingy front room,flicking on a wall switch as he entered.  He turned to say somethingjust as the boy in the hooded rain slicker came closer and with bothhands, clasped the man's own hand, seemingly a gesture of awkwardgratitude.  Water ran down from the sleeve of his yellow slicker ontothe old man's dressing gown.  The boy made a sudden, jerking movement."Hey," the old man protested, confused.  He pulled away, then slumpedto the floor.The boy stared down at the crumpled body for a moment.  He slipped offhis wrist the small device that held a tiny retractable hypodermicneedle and put it in an inside pocket of his slicker.Quickly he surveyed the room, spotted the ancient television, andturned it on.  An old black-and-white movie was playing.  Now he setabout his task with the confidence of someone much older.He went back to the body, set it carefully on a shabby orange loungechair, arranging the arms and head so that it looked as if the old manhad fallen asleep in front of the TV.Pulling a roll of paper towels from inside his slicker, he swiftlymopped up the water that had pooled on the wide pine boards of theentrance hall.  Then he returned to the front door, which was stillopen, glanced around outside, and when he was satisfied, stepped outonto the porch and closed the door behind him.The Austrian AlpsThe silver Mercedes S430 wound up the steep mountain road until itarrived at the clinic gates.  A security guard in the booth by the gatecame out, saw who the passenger was, and said with great deference,"Welcome, sir."  He did not bother to ask for identification.  Thechief of the clinic was to be admitted with dispatch.  The car turnedonto the ringdrive through a sloping campus where the vibrant green of well-tendedgrass and sculpted pines contrasted with drifting patches of powderysnow.  Towering in the distance overhead were the magnificent whitecrags and planes of the Schneeberg peak.  The car drove around a densestand of tall yews, an dover to a second, hidden security booth.  Theguard, who had already been alerted to the director's arrival, pressedthe button that raised the steel bar and, at the same time, touched theswitch that lowered the steel spikes set into the pavement, which wouldruin the tires of any vehicle that entered without being clearedthrough.The Mercedes drove up a long narrow road that led only to one place: anold clock factory, formerly a Schloss that had been built two centuriesago.  A coded remote signal was sent, an electronic door opened, andthe car pulled into the reserved parking space.  The driver got out andopened the door for his passenger, who strode quickly into theentrance.  There another security guard, this one behind bulletproofglass, nodded and smiled a welcome.The director entered the elevator, an anachronism in this ancientAlpine structure, inserted his digitally encoded identification card tounlock it, and made his way to the third, and top, floor.  There hepassed through three sets of doors, each unlocked by means of anelectronic card reader, until he came to the conference room, where theothers were already seated around the long burnished mahogany table. Hetook his place at the head of the table and looked around at theothers."Gentlemen," he began, "only days remain before the fulfillment of ourdream so long deferred.  The long gestation period is nearly over.Which is to say, your patience is about to be rewarded, and beyond thewildest dreams of our founders."  The sounds of approval around thetable were gratifying, and he waited for them to subside beforecontinuing.  "As for security, I have been assured that very few of theangeli re belli remain.  Soon there will be none.  There is, however,one small problem."ZurichBen tried to stand, but his legs would not support him.  He sank to theground, on the verge of becoming violently ill, feeling at once coldandprickly-hot.  Blood roared in his ears.  An icicle of fear was lodgedin his stomach.What had just happened?  he asked himself.  Why in the hell was JimmyCavanaugh trying to kill him?  What kind of madness was this?  Had theman's mind snapped?  Had Ben's sudden reappearance after a decade and ahalf triggered something in a disturbed brain, a rush of twisted memorythat for some reason had propelled him to murder?He could taste liquid, brackish and metallic, and he touched his lips.Blood was seeping from his nose.  It must have happened in thestruggle.  He'd gotten a bloody nose, Jimmy Cavanaugh a bullet in thebrain.The noise from the shopping arcade outside was subsiding.  There werestill shouts, the occasional anguished cry, but the chaos wasdiminishing.  Steadying himself with his hands on the floor, he pushedhimself up, managed to get to his feet.  He felt dizzy, vertiginous,and knew it was not from any loss of blood; he was in shock.He forced himself to look at Cavanaugh's body.  By now he'd calmed downenough to think.Somebody I haven't seen since the age of twenty-one turns up in Zurich,goes insane and tries to kill me.  And now he lies here dead, in atacky medieval-the med restaurant.  No explanation to offer.  Maybethere'd never be an explanation.Carefully avoiding the pool of blood around the head, he went throughCavanaugh's pockets, first the suit jacket, then the pants, then thepockets of the trench coat.  There was absolutely nothing there.  No IDcards, no credit cards.  Bizarre.  Cavanaugh seemed to have emptied hispockets, as if in preparation for what happened.It had been premeditated.  Planned.He noticed the blue-black Walther PPK still clutched in Cavanaugh'shand and considered checking the magazine to see how many rounds wereleft.  He pondered taking it, just slipping the slim pistol into hispocket.  What if Cavanaugh wasn't alone?What if there were others?He hesitated.  This was a crime scene of sorts.  Best not to alter itin any way, in case there was legal trouble down the line.Slowly, he got up and made his way, dazed, into the main hall.  Now itwas mostly deserted, apart from a few clusters of emergency medicaltechnicians tending to the wounded.  Someone was being carried on astretcher.Ben had to find a policeman.The two cops, one clearly a rookie and one middle-aged, looked at himdubiously.  He'd found them standing by the Bijoux Suisse kiosk, nearthe Marktplatz food court.  They wore navy-blue sweaters with redshoulder patches that read Zurichpolizei; each had a walkie-talkie and apistol holstered to the belt."May I see your passport, please?"  the young one asked after Ben hadspoken for a few minutes.  Evidently the older one either didn't speakEnglish or preferred not to."For God's sake," Ben snapped in frustration, "people have been killed.A guy's lying dead in a restaurant down there, a man who tried--""Ihren Pass, bitte," the rookie persisted sternly.  "Do you haveidentification?""Of course I do," Ben said, reaching for his billfold.  He pulled it outand handed it over.The rookie examined it suspiciously, then gave it to the senior man, whoglanced at it without interest and thrust it back at Ben."Where were you when this happened?"  the rookie asked."Waiting in front of the Hotel St.  Gotthard.  A car was supposed totake me to the airport."The rookie took a step forward, uncomfortably close to him, and hisneutral gaze became frankly mistrustful: "You are going to the airport?""I was on my way to St.  Moritz.""And suddenly this man fired a gun at you?""He's an old friend.  Was an old friend."The rookie lifted an eyebrow."I hadn't seen him in fifteen years," Ben continued.  "He recognized me,sort of came toward me as if he was happy to see me, then suddenly hepulls out a gun.""You had a quarrel?""We didn't exchange two words!"The younger cop's eyes narrowed.  "You had arranged to meet?""No.  It was pure coincidence.""Yet he had a gun, a loaded gun."  The rookie looked at the older cop,then turned back to Ben.  "And it was outfitted with a silencer, yousay.  He must have known you would be there."Ben shook his head, exasperated.  "I hadn't talked to him in years!  Hecouldn't possibly have known I'd be here.""Surely you must agree that people do not just carry around guns withsilencers unless they mean to use them."Ben hesitated.  "I suppose that's right."The older policeman cleared his throat.  "And what kind of gun did youhave?"  he asked in surprisingly fluent English."What are you talking about?"  Ben asked, his voice rising inindignation.  "I didn't have a gun.""Then forgive me, I must be confused.  You say your friend had a gun,and that you did not.  In which case, why is he dead, and not you?"It was a good question.  Ben just shook his head as he thought back tothe moment when Jimmy Cavanaugh leveled the steel tube at him.  Part ofhim the rational part had assumed it was a prank.  But obviously part ofhim had not: he'd been primed to react swiftly.  Why?  He replayed inhis mind Jimmy's easy lope, his wide welcoming grin ... and his coldeyes.  Watchful eyes that didn't quite match the grin.  A smalldiscordant element that his subconscious mind must have registered."Come, let us go to see the body of this assassin," the older policemansaid, and he placed a hand on Ben's shoulder in a way that was not atall affectionate but instead conveyed that Ben was no longer a free man.Ben led the way across the arcade, which now swarmed with policemen,reporters snapping pictures, and made his way down to the second level.The two Polizei followed close behind.  At the katz keller sign Benentered the dining room, went to the alcove, and pointed."Well?"  demanded the rookie angrily.Astonished, Ben stared, wide-eyed, at the spot where Cavanaugh's bodyhad been.  He felt light-headed, his mind frozen in shock.  There wasnothing there.No pool of blood.  No body, no gun.  The lantern arm had been replacedin its fixture as if it had never been removed.  The floor was clean andbare.It was as if nothing had ever happened there."My God," Ben breathed.  Had he snapped, lost touch with reality? But hecould feel the solidity of the floor, the bar, the tables.  If this wassome elaborate stunt... but it wasn't.  He had somehow stumbled intosomething intricate and terrifying.The policemen stared at him with rekindled suspicion."Listen," Ben said, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper, "I can'texplain this.  I was here.  He was here."The older policeman spoke rapidly on the walkie-talkie, and soon theywere joined by another officer, stolid and barrel-chested.  "Perhaps Iam easily confused, so let me try to understand.  You race through abusy street, and then through the underground shopping arcade.  Allaround you, people are shot.  You claim that you are being chased by amaniac.  You promise to show us this man, this American.  And yet thereis no maniac.  There is only you.  A strange American spinning fairytales.""Goddamnit, I've told you the truth!""You say a madman from your past was responsible for the bloodshed," therookie said in a quiet, steely voice.  "I see only one madman here."The older policeman conferred in Schweitzerdeutsch with his barrelchested colleague.  "You were staying at the Hotel St.  Gotthard, yes?"he finally asked Ben.  "Why don't you take us there?"Accompanied by three policemen--the barrel-chested one walking behindhim, the rookie ahead of him, and the older policeman close by hisside--Ben made his way through the underground arcade, up the escalator,and down the Bahnhofstrasse toward his hotel.  Though he was not yetcuffed, he knew that this was merely a formality.In front of the hotel, a policewoman, whom the others had clearly sentahead, was keeping a custodial watch over his luggage.  Her brown hairwas short, almost mannish, and her expression was stony.Through the lobby windows, Ben caught a glimpse of the unctuous Hotelpage who'd attended to him earlier.  Their eyes met, and the man turnedaway with stricken look, as if he'd just learned he'd toted bags for LeeHarvey Oswald."Your luggage, yes?"  the rookie asked Ben."Yes, yes," Ben said.  "What of it?"  Now what?  What more could therebe?The policewoman opened the tan leather hand luggage.  The others lookedinside, then turned to face Ben.  "This is yours?"  the rookie asked."I already said it was," Ben replied.The middle-aged cop took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and usedit to lift an object out of the satchel.  It was Cavanaugh's Walther PPKpistol.CHAPTER THREE.Washington, D.C.A serious-looking young woman strode briskly down the long centralcorridor of the fifth floor of the United States Department of JusticeBuilding, the mammoth Classical Revival structure that occupied theentire block between Ninth and Tenth Streets.  She had glossy dark brownhair, caramel-brown eyes, a sharp nose.  At first glance she looked partAsian, or perhaps Hispanic.  She wore a tan trench coat, carried aleather briefcase, and might have been taken for a lawyer, a lobbyist,maybe a government official on the fast track.Her name was Anna Navarro.  She was thirty-three and worked in theOffice of Special Investigations, a little-known unit of the JusticeDepartment.When she arrived at the stuffy conference room, she realized that theweekly unit meeting was already well under way.  Arliss Dupree, standingby a white board on an easel, turned as she entered and stopped inmid-sentence.  She felt the stares, couldn't help blushing a little,which was no doubt what Dupree wanted.  She took the first empty seat. Ashaft of sunlight blinded her."There she is.  Nice of you to join us," Dupree said.  Even his insultswere predictable.  She merely nodded, determined not to let him provokeher.  He'd told her the meeting would be at eight-fifteen.  Obviously ithad been scheduled to start at eight, and he would deny ever having toldher otherwise.  A petty, bureaucratic way of giving her a hard time.They both knew why she was late, even if nobody else here did.Before Dupree was brought in to head the Office of SpecialInvestigations, meetings were a rarity.  Now he held them weekly, as achance to parade his authority.  Dupree was short and wide, mid-forties,the body of a weight lifter in a too-tight light gray suit, one of threeshopping mall suits he rotated.  Even across the room she could smellhis drugstore aftershave.  He had a ruddy moon face the texture of lumpyporridge.There was a time when she actually cared what men like Arliss Dupreethought about her and tried to win them over.  Now she didn't give adamn.  She had her friends, and Dupree was simply not among them. Acrossthe table, David Denneen, a square-jawed, sandy-haired man, gave her asympathetic glance."As some of you may have heard, Internal Compliance has asked for ourcolleague here to be temporarily assigned to them."  Dupree turned toher, his eyes hard.  "Given the amount of unfinished work you've gothere, I'd consider it less than responsible, Agent Navarro, if youaccepted an assignment from another division.  Is this something you'vebeen angling for?  You can tell us, you know.""This is the first I've heard of it," she told him truthfully."That right?  Well, maybe I've been leaping to conclusions here," hesaid, his tone softening a bit."Quite possibly," she replied, dryly."I was making the assumption that you were wanted for an assignment.Maybe you are the assignment.""Come again?""Maybe you're the one under investigation," Dupree said in a mellowertone, evidently pleased by the idea.  "It wouldn't surprise me.  You'rea deep one, Agent Navarro."  There were laughs from some of his drinkingbuddies.She shifted her chair to get the light out of her eyes.Ever since Detroit, when the two of them were staying on the same floorof the Westin and she turned down (politely, she thought) Dupree'sdrunken, highly explicit proposal, he'd been leaving condescendinglittle remarks, like rat droppings, in her performance evaluationfolder:... as best she can given her obviously limited interest...errors a result of inattention, not incompetence... He described her toa male colleague, she'd heard, as "a sexual harassment suit waiting tohappen."  He tarred her with the most vicious insult you can givesomeone in the Bureau: not a team player.  Not a team player meant shedidn't go out drinking with the boys, including Dupree, kept her sociallife separate.  He also made a point of papering her files with mentionsof mistakes she'd made a few minor procedural omissions, nothing at allserious.  Once, on the trail of a rogue DBA agent who'd been turned by adrug lord and was implicated in several homicides, she'd neglected tosubmit an FD-460 within the required seven days.The best agents make mistakes.  She was convinced that the best ones infact-made more minor gaffes than average, because they were focused moreon following the trail than on following every single procedure in themanual of rules and regs.  You could slavishly observe every lastridiculous procedural requirement and never crack a case.She felt his stare on her.  She looked up, and their eyes locked."We've got an unusually heavy caseload to deal with," Dupree went on."When somebody doesn't do their share, it means more work for everyoneelse.  We've got a midlevel IRS manager suspected of organizing somepretty complicated tax scams.  We've got a rogue FBI guy who seems to beusing his shield to pursue a personal vendetta.  We've got some aTF.shit-heel selling munitions from the evidence vaults."  That was atypical array of cases for the OSI: investigating ("auditing" was theterm of art) misconduct involving members of other government agenciesin essence, the federal version of internal affairs."Maybe the workload here is a little much for you," Dupree said,pressing.  "Is that it?"She pretended to jot down a note and didn't reply.  Her face was pricklywarm.  She inhaled slowly, struggling to tamp down her anger. Sherefused to give in to his baiting.  Finally she spoke.  "Look, if it'sinconvenient, why don't you refuse the request for interdepartmentaltransfer?"  Anna asked it in a reasonable tone of voice, but it wasn'tan innocent question: Dupree lacked the authority to challenge thehighly secretive, all-powerful Internal Compliance Unit, and anyreference to the limits of his authority was bound to infuriate him.Dupree's little ears reddened.  "I'm expecting a brief consult.  If thespook hunters at I.C.U knew as much as they pretend, they might realizethat you aren't exactly cut out for that line of work."His eyes shone with what she imagined was contempt.Anna loved her work, knew she was good at it.  She didn't requirepraise.  All she wanted was not to have to spend her time and energytrying to hang on to her job, clinging by her fingernails.  Again shekept her face a mask of neutrality.  She felt the tension localizeitself in her stomach.  "I'm sure you did your best to make themunderstand."A beat of silence.  Anna could see he was debating how to reply. Dupreeglanced at his beloved white board at the next item on his agenda."We'll miss you," he said.Shortly after the meeting broke up, David Denneen sought her out in hertiny cubbyhole of an office.  "The I.C.U wants you because you're thebest," he said.  "You know that, don't you?"Anna shook her head wearily.  "I was surprised to see you at themeeting.  You're in operations oversight now.  Doing great, by allaccounts."  Word was he was on the fast track for a position in the AG'soffice."Thanks to you," Denneen said.  "I was there today as divisionalrepresentative.  We take turns.  Got to keep an eye on the budgetnumbers.  And on you."  Gently, he placed a hand on hers.  Anna noticedthat the warmth in his eyes was mixed with concern."It was good to see you there," Anna said.  "And send my best to Ramon.""I'll do that," he said.  "We'll have to have you over for paellaagain.""But there's something else on your mind, isn't there?"Denneen's eyes didn't leave hers.  "Listen, Anna, your new assignment,whatever it is, isn't going to be like getting a new call sheet.  Whatpeople say around here is true the ways of the Ghost are mysterious toman."  He repeated the old jest with little humor.  The Ghost was anin-house nickname for the longtime director of the Internal ComplianceUnit, Alan Bartlett.  During closed hearings before the Senatesubcommittee on intelligence, back in the seventies, a deputy attorneygeneral had referred to him, archly, as "the ghost in the machine," andthe honorific had stuck.  If Bartlett wasn't ghostly, he was alegendarily elusive figure.  Seldom seen, reputedly brilliant, he ruledover a rarefied dominion of highly classified audits, and his ownreclusive habits made him emblematic of its clandestine ways.Anna shrugged.  "I wouldn't know.  I've never met him, and I don't thinkI know anyone who has.  Rumors thrive on ignorance, Dave.  You of allpeople know that.""Then take a word of advice from an ignoramus who cares about you," hesaid.  "I don't know what this I.C.U thing is about.  But be careful,O.K.?""Careful how?"Denneen just shook his head, uneasily.  "It's a different world overthere," he said.Later that morning, Anna found herself in the immense marble lobby of anoffice building on M Street, on her way to her appointment at theInternal Compliance Unit.  The unit's workings were obscure even withinthe department, and its operational purview was or so certain senatorshad occasionally charged dangerously undefined.  It's a different worldover there, Denneen had said, and so it seemed.The I.C.U was located on the tenth floor of this modern office complexin Washington, isolated from a bureaucracy it was sometimes obliged toscrutinize, and she tried not to gawk at the splashing indoor fountain,the green marble floors and walls.  She thought: What kind of governmentagency gets fitted out like this?  She got on the elevator. Even thatwas trimmed with marble.The only other passenger on the elevator was a too-handsome guy aroundher age in a too-expensive suit.  A lawyer, she decided.  Like justabout everyone else in this city.In the mirrored elevator walls she saw him giving her The Look.  If shecaught his eye, she knew he'd smile and say good morning and strike up abanal Elevator Conversation.  Even though he was no doubt wellintentioned and probably just wanted to flirt politely, Anna found itmildly annoying.  Nor did she respond well when men asked her why awoman as beautiful as she was had become a government investigator.  Asif what she did for a living were the special province of the homely.Normally, she pretended not to notice.  Now, however, she threw him ascowl.  He looked away hastily.Whatever it was that the I.C.U wanted from her, it had come at a damninconvenient time; Dupree was right about that.  Maybe you are theassignment, he'd said, and though Anna had shrugged off the suggestion,it nagged at her, absurdly.  What the hell was that supposed to mean? Nodoubt Arliss Dupree was in his office right now, gleefully sharing hisspeculation with some of his drinking buddies on the staff.The elevator opened onto a lavishly appointed, marble-lined hall thatcould have been the executive floor of a high-priced law firm.  Off tothe right she spotted the seal of the Department of Justice mounted onone wall.  Visitors were instructed to buzz for admittance.  She did so.It was 11:25 a.m."  five minutes before her scheduled appointment. Annaprided herself on her punctuality.A female voice demanded her name, and then she was buzzed in by ahandsome dark-skinned woman with a squared-off haircut almost too chicfor government work, Anna thought to herself.The receptionist assessed her coolly and directed her to take a seat.Anna detected a very faint Jamaican accent.Within the office suite, the trappings of the swanky building gave wayto a setting of utter sterility.  The pearl-gray carpet was immaculate,like no government carpet she'd ever seen.  The waiting area wasbrightly lighted with an array of halogen bulbs that left virtually noshadows.  Photos of the President and the Attorney General were framedin lacquered steel.  The chairs and the coffee table were of hard blondwood.  Everything looked brand new, as if it had been freshly uncrated,unsoiled by human habitation.She noticed the foil hologram stickers on both the fax machine and thetelephone on the receptionist's desk, government labels indicating thatthese were secure lines, employing officially certified telephoneencryption.At frequent intervals, the phone purred quietly, and the woman spoke ina low voice using a headset.  The first two calls were in English; thethird must have been in French, because the receptionist responded inthat language.  Two more in English, gently eliciting contactinformation.  And then another in which she spoke in a language,sibilant and clicky, that Anna had a hard time identifying.  Annaglanced at her watch again, fidgeted in the hard-backed chair, and thenlooked at the receptionist.  "That was Basque, wasn't it?"  she said. Itwas something more than a guess, but less than a certainty.The woman responded with a fractional nod and a demure smile.  "It won'tbe much longer, Ms.  Navarro," she said.Now Anna's eye was drawn to the tall wooden island behind thereceptionist's station, which extended all the way to the wall; from thelegally required exit sign, she realized that the wooden structureconcealed the entrance to a staircase.  It was artfully done, and itallowed I.C.U agents or their guests to arrive and depart unnoticed byanyone in the official waiting room.  What kind of outfit was this?Another five minutes went by."Does Mr.  Harriett know I'm here?"  Anna asked.The receptionist returned her gaze levelly.  "He's just finishing upwithAnna returned to her chair, wishing she'd brought something to read. Shedidn't even have the Post, and clearly no reading material would beallowed to soil the pristine waiting area.  She took out anautomatic-teller machine slip and a pen and started making a list ofthings to do.The receptionist placed a finger on her ear and nodded.  "Mr.  Bartlettsays he'll see you now."  She emerged from her station and guided Annadown a series of doors.  No names were posted; only numbers.  Finally,at the end of a hallway, she opened a door marked director and took herinto the tidiest office she had ever seen.  On a far table, stacks ofpaper were perfectly arrayed in equidistant piles.A small, white-haired man in a crisp navy suit came out from behind avast walnut desk and extended a small, delicate hand.  Anna noticed thepale pink moons of his perfectly manicured nails and was surprised bythe strength of his grip.  She noticed that the desk was barren, savefor a handful of green file folders, and a sleek, black telephone;mounted on the wall just behind it was a velvet-lined glass display casecontaining two antique-looking pocket watches.  It was the one eccentrictouch in the room."I'm so terribly sorry to keep you waiting," he said.  His age wasindeterminate, but he was probably in his early sixties, Anna decided.His eyes were owlish through his glasses, large round lenses inflesh-colored frames.  "I know how busy you are, and you were so verykind to have come by."  He spoke softly, so softly that Anna foundherself straining to hear him over the white noise of the ventilationsystem.  "We're very grateful for your making the time.""If I may speak candidly, I didn't know we had a choice when I.C.Ucalled," she said tartly.He smiled as if she had said something amusing.  "Please do sit down."Anna settled into the high-backed chair opposite his desk.  "To tell youthe truth, Mr.  Bartlett, I'm curious about why I'm here.""You weren't inconvenienced, I hope," Bartlett said, interlacing hissmall fingers in a prayerful tent."It's not a matter of inconvenience," Anna replied.  In a strong voice,she added, "I'm happy to answer whatever questions you may have."Bartlett nodded encouragingly.  "That's rather what I'm hoping.  But I'mafraid these answers won't be easy to come by.  In fact, if we couldeven frame the questions, we'd be halfway home.  Am I making any senseto you?""I return to my own question," Anna said with banked impatience. "Whatam I doing here?""Forgive me.  You're thinking that I'm being maddeningly elliptical. Ofcourse you're right, and I apologize for it.  Occupational hazard. Toomuch time shut away with paper and more paper.  Deprived of the bracingair of experience.  But that must be your contribution.  Now let me askyou a question, Ms.  Navarro.  Do you know what it is that we do here?""The I.C.U?  Vaguely.  Intragovernmental inquiries--only, the classifiedkind."  Anna decided that the query called for reticence; she knew alittle more than what she volunteered.  She was aware that behind itsbland title was an extremely secretive, powerful, and far-reachinginvestigative agency charged with highly classified audits andexaminations of other U.S. government agencies that couldn't be donein-house, and which involved highly sensitive matters.  I.C.U officialswere deeply involved, it was said, in scrutinizing the CIA's AldrichAmes fiasco; in investigating the Reagan White House's Iran-Contraaffair; in examining numerous Defense Department acquisitions scandals.It was the I.C.U, people whispered, that had first uncovered thesuspicious activities of the FBI's counterintelligence agent RobertPhilip Hanssen.  There were even rumors that the I.C.U was behind the"Deep Throat" leaks that led to Richard Nixon's downfall.Bartlett looked off into the middle distance.  "The techniques ofinvestigation are, in their essentials, everywhere the same," he said,finally.  "What changes is the bailiwick, the ambit of operations. Ourshas to do with matters touching on national security.""I don't have that kind of clearance," Anna put in quickly."Actually"--Bartlett allowed himself a small smile--"you do now."Had she been cleared without her knowledge?  "Regardless.  It's not myterrain.""That's not strictly the case, is it?"  Bartlett said.  "Why don't wetalk about the NSC member you did a Code 33 on last year?""How the hell do you know about that?"  Anna blurted.  She gripped thearm of her chair.  "Sorry.  But how?  That one was strictly off thebooks.  By the direct request of the AG.""Off your books," Bartlett said.  "We have our own way of keeping tabs.Joseph Nesbett, wasn't it?  Used to be at the Harvard Center forEconomic Development.  Got a high-level appointment at State, then on tothe National Security Council.  Not born bad, shall we say?  Left to hisown devices, I suspect he'd be all right, but the young wife was a bitof a spendthrift, a rather grasping creature, wasn't she? Expensivetastes for a government employee.  Which led to that lamentable businesswith the offshore accounts, the diversion of funds, all of it.""It would have been devastating had it come out," Anna said.  "Damagingto foreign relations at a particularly sensitive moment.""Not to mention the embarrassment to the Administration.""That wasn't a primary consideration," Anna retorted sharply.  "I'm notpolitical that way.  If you think otherwise, you don't know me.""You and your colleagues did precisely the right thing, Ms.  Navarro. Weadmired your work, in fact.  Very deft.  Very deft.""Thank you," Anna said.  "But if you know so much, you'll know that itwas far from my usual turf.""My point remains.  You've done work of genuine sensitivity anddisplayed the utmost discretion.  But of course I know what your dailyfare consists of.  The IRS man guilty of speculation.  The rogue FBIofficer.  The unpleasantness involving Witness Protection--now, that wasquite an interesting little exercise.  Your background in homicideforensics was indispensable there.  A mob witness is killed, and yousinglehandedly proved the involvement of the DO) case officer.""A lucky break," Anna said stolidly."People make their own luck, Ms.  Navarro," he said, and his eyes wereunsmiling.  "We know quite a bit about you, Ms.  Navarro.  More than youmight imagine.  We know the account balances on that ATM slip you werewriting on.  We know who your friends are, and when you last calledhome.  We know you've never padded a travel-and-expense report in yourlife, which is more than most of us can say."  He paused, peering at herclosely.  "I'm sorry if any of this causes you disquiet, but you realizethat you relinquished any civil rights to privacy when you joined theOSI, signed the disclaimers and the memoranda of agreement.  No matter.The fact is that your work has invariably been of a very high caliber.And quite often extraordinary."She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing."Ah.  You look surprised.  I told you, we have our own way of keepingtabs.  And we have our own fitness reports, Ms.  Navarro.  Of course,what immediately distinguishes you, given our concerns, is yourparticular combination of skills.  You have a background in the standard'audit' and investigative protocols, but you also have an expertise inhomicide. This makes you, may I say, unique.  But to the matter at hand.It's only fair to let you know that we've done the most thoroughbackground check on you imaginable.  Everything I'm going to tell youanything I state, assert, conjecture, suggest, or imply must be regardedas classified at the topmost level.  Do we understand each other?"Anna nodded.  "I'm listening.""Excellent, Ms.  Navarro."  Bartlett handed her a sheet of paper with alist of names on it, followed by dates of birth and countries ofresidence."I'm not following.  Am I supposed to contact these men?""Not unless you've got a Ouija board.  All eleven of these men aredeceased.  All passed from this vale of tears within the past twomonths.  Several, you'll see, in the United States, others inSwitzerland, in England, Italy, Spain, Sweden, Greece ... All apparentlyof natural causes."Anna glanced at the sheet.  Of the eleven, there were two names sherecognized one a member of the Lancaster family, a family that onceowned most of the steel mills in the country, but was now better knownfor its foundation grants and other forms of philanthropy.  PhilipLancaster was, in fact, somebody she'd assumed had died long ago.  Theother, Nico Xenakis, was presumably from the Greek shipping family.  Tobe honest, she knew the name mainly in connection to anotherinvestigation ofthe family man who had made a tabloid name for himself as a roue backin the sixties, when he'd dated a series of Hollywood starlets.  None ofthe other names rang any bells.  Looking at their dates of birth, shesaw that all of them were old men in their late seventies to lateeighties."Maybe the news hasn't reached the I.C.U whiz kids," she said, "but whenyou've had your three score and ten ... well, no one gets out alive.""In none of these cases is exhumation possible, I'm afraid," Bartlettcontinued implacably.  "Perhaps it's as you say.  Old men doing what oldmen will do.  In those instances, we cannot prove otherwise.  But in thelast few days, we've had a stroke of luck.  In a pro forma way, we put aroster of names on the 'sentinel list' one of those internationalconventions that nobody seems to take any notice of.  The most recentdeath was of a retiree in Nova Scotia, Canada.  Our Canadian friends aresticklers about procedures, and that's how the alarm was sounded intime.  In this instance, we have a body to work with.  More precisely,you do.""You're leaving something out, of course.  What is it that connectsthese men?""To every question, there's a surface answer and a deeper one.  I'llgive you the surface answer, because it's the only one I have.  A fewyears ago, an internal audit was conducted of the CIA's deep-storagerecords.  Was a tip received?  Let's say it was.  These werenonoperational files, mind you.  They weren't agents or direct contacts.They were, in fact, clearance files.  Each was marked "Sigma,"presumably a reference to a codeword operation of which there seems tobe no trace in the Agency's records.  We have no information as to itsnature.""Clearance files?"  Anna repeated."Meaning that some time long ago each man had been vetted and clearedfor something, we don't know what.""And the source of origin was a CIA archivist."He didn't reply directly.  "Each file has been authenticated by our topforensic document experts.  They're old, these files.  They date as farback as the mid-forties, before there even was a CIA.""You're saying they were started by OSS?""Exactly," Bartlett said.  "The CIA's precursor.  Many of the files wereopened right around the time the war was ending, the Cold War beginning.The latest ones date from the mid-fifties.  But I digress. As I say, wehave this curious pattern of deaths.  Of course, it would have gonenowhere, a question mark in a field full of question marks, except thatwe began to see a pattern, cross-checked and correlated with the Sigmafiles.  I don't believe in coincidences, do you, Ms. Navarro?  Eleven ofthe men named in these files have died in a very short interval.  Theactuarial odds of this happening by chance are ... remote at best."Anna nodded impatiently.  As far as she could see, the Ghost was seeingghosts.  "How long is this assignment for?  I've got a real job, youknow.""This is your 'real' job now.  You've already been reassigned.  We'vemade the arrangements.  You understand your task, then?"  His gazesoftened.  "This doesn't seem to quicken your pulse, Ms.  Navarro."Anna shrugged.  "I keep coming back to the fact that these guys are allin the graduating class, if you know what I mean.  Old guys tend to popoff, O.K.?  These were old guys.""And in nineteenth-century Paris, getting trampled by a carriage waspretty commonplace," Bartlett said.Anna furrowed her brow.  "Excuse me?"Bartlett leaned back in his chair.  "Have you ever heard of theFrenchman Claude Rochat?  No?  He's someone I think about quite a bit. Adull,unimaginative, plodding, dogged fellow, who, in the 1860s and 1870s,worked as an accountant in the employ of the Directoire, France's ownbureau of intelligence.  In 1867, it came to his attention that two lowlevel clerks at the Directoire, apparently unacquainted, had both beenkilled in the course of a fortnight--one the victim of an apparentstreet robbery, the other trampled to death by a mail coach.  It was thesort of thing that happened all the time.  Quite unremarkable.  Butstill he wondered, especially after he learned that at the time ofdeath, both of these humble clerks had on their persons costly goldpocket watches--in fact, as he confirmed, the two watches wereidentical, both with a fine cloisonne landscape on the inside of thewatchcase.  A small oddity, but it arrested his attention, and, to theexasperation of his superiors, he spent the next four years trying tofigure out why, and how, this small oddity had come about.  In the end,he uncovered a spy ring of extraordinary intricacy: the Directoire hadbeen penetrated and manipulated by its Prussian counterparts."  Heregistered her darting glance and smiled: "Yes, those pocket watches inthe case are the very ones.  Exquisite craftsmanship.  I acquired them acouple of decades ago at an auction.  I like having them nearby.  Ithelps me to remember."Bartlett closed his eyes for a contemplative moment.  "Of course, by thetime Rochat completed his investigations, it was too late," he went on."Bismark's agents, through a cunning diet of misinformation, had alreadytricked France into declaring war.  "A Berlin was the great cry.  Theresult was disastrous for France: the military dominance it had enjoyedsince the Battle of Rocroi in 1643 was completely destroyed, in just acouple of months.  Can you imagine?  The French army, with the Emperorat its head, was led straight into an ingenious ambush near Sedan.  Andthat was the end, needless to say, for Napoleon III.  The country lostAlsace-Lorraine, it had to pay staggering reparations, and it had tosubmit to two years of occupation.  An extraordinary blow, it was--onethat shifted the whole course of European history irreversibly.  Andjust a few years earlier, Claude Rochat was tugging at a little thread,not knowing where it would lead, not knowing whether it would leadanywhere.  It was just those two lowly clerks and their matching pocketwatches."  Bartlett made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh.  "Most ofthe time, something that looks trivial really is trivial.  Most of thetime.  My job is to worry about such matters.  The tiny threads.  Theboring little discrepancies.  The trivial little patterns that justmight lead to larger patterns.The most important thing I do is the least glamorous thing imaginable."An arched eyebrow.  "I look for matching pocket watches."Anna was silent for a few moments.  The Ghost was living fully up to hisreputation: cryptic, hopelessly obscure.  "I appreciate the historylesson," she said slowly, "but my frame of reference has always been thehere and now.  If you really think these deep-storage files have ongoingrelevance, why not simply have the CIA investigate?"Bartlett withdrew a crisp silk pocket square from his suit jacket andbegan to polish his eyeglasses.  "Things get rather awkward aroundhere," he said.  "The I.C.U tends to get involved only in cases wherethere's a real possibility of internal interference or anything elsethat might preclude a thorough inquiry.  Let's leave it at that." Therewas a hint of condescension in his voice."Let's not," Anna said sharply.  It wasn't a tone to take with the headof a division, especially one as powerful as the I.C.U, but subserviencewasn't in her skill set, and Bartlett might as well know at the outsetwhose services he had engaged.  "With respect, you're talking about thepossibility that someone in, or retired from, the Agency may be behindthe deaths."The director of the Internal Compliance Unit blanched slightly.  "Ididn't say that.""You didn't deny it."Bartlett sighed.  "Of the crooked timber of humanity, nothing straightwas ever made."  A tight smile."If you think Central Intelligence might be compromised, why not bringin the FBI?"Bartlett snorted delicately.  "Why not bring in the Associated Press?The Federal Bureau of Investigation has many strengths, but discretionisn't among them.  I'm not sure you appreciate the sensitivity of thismatter.  The fewer people who know about it, the better.  That's why I'mnot involving a team just an individual.  The right individual, I dearlyhope, Agent Navarro.""Even if these deaths really are murders," she said, "it's highlyunlikely you'll ever find the killer, I hope you know that.""That's the standard bureaucratic response," Bartlett said, "but youdon't strike me as a bureaucrat.  Mr.  Dupree says you're stubborn and'not exactly a team player."  Well, that's precisely what I wanted."Anna forged ahead.  "You're basically asking me to investigate theCIA.You want me to examine a series of deaths to establish that they aremurders, and then ""And then to amass any evidence that would allow us to conduct anaudit."  Bartlett's gray eyes shone through his plastic-rimmed glasses."No matter who's implicated.  Is that clear?""As mud," Anna said.  A seasoned investigator, she was used toconducting interviews with witnesses and suspects alike.  Sometimes yousimply needed to listen.  Sometimes, however, you needed to goad, toprovoke a response.  Art and experience came in knowing when. Bartlett'sstory was perforated with elisions and omissions.  She appreciated theneed-to-know reflexes of a wily old bureaucrat, but in her experience,it helped to know more than you strictly needed to. "I'm not going toplay blindman's bluff," she said.Bartlett blinked.  "I beg your pardon?""You must have copies of these Sigma files.  You must have scrutinizedthem closely.  And yet you claim you have no idea what Sigma was about.""Where are you going with this?"  His voice was cool."Will you show me these files?"A rictus like smile: "No.  No, that won't be possible.""Why not?"Bartlett put his glasses on again.  "I'm not under investigation here.As much as I admire your tactics of interrogation.  Anyway, I believeI've been clear on the relevant points.""No, dammit, that's not good enough!  You're fully acquainted with thesefiles.  If you don't know what they add up to, then at least you've gotto have your suspicions.  An educated hypothesis.  Anything at all. Saveyour poker face for your Tuesday-night card game.  I'm not playing."Bartlett finally erupted.  "For Christ's sake, you've seen enough toknow that we're talking about the reputation of some of the majorfigures of the postwar era.  These are clearance files.  By themselves,they prove nothing.  I had you vetted before our conversation did thatimplicate you in my affairs?  I trust your discretion.  Of course I do.But we're talking about prominent individuals as well as obscure ones.You can't simply go stomping around in your sensible shoes."Anna listened carefully, listened to the undertone of tension in hisvoice.  "You talk about reputations, yet that's not what you're reallyconcerned about, is it?"  she pressed.  "I need more to go on!"He shook his head.  "It's like trying to fashion a rope ladder out ofgossamer.  Nothing that we've ever been able to pin down.  Half acentury ago, something was hatched.  Something.  Something that involvedvital interests.  The Sigma list encompasses a curious collection ofindividuals some were industrialists, we know, and there are otherswhose identity we haven't been able to figure out at all. What they havein common is that a founder of the CIA, someone with enormous power inthe forties and fifties, took a direct interest in them.  Was heenlisting them?  Targeting them?  We're all playing blindman's bluff.But it would seem that an undertaking of enormous secrecy was launched.You asked what connects these men.  In a real sense, we simply don'tknow."  He adjusted his cuffs, the nervous tick of a fastidious man."You might say we're at the pocket-watch stage.""No offense, but the Sigma list that goes back half a century!""Ever been to the Somme, in France?"  Bartlett asked abruptly, his eyesa little too bright.  "You ought to go just to look at the poppiesgrowing among the wheat.  Every once in a while, a farmer in the Sommecuts down an oak tree, sits down on the trunk, and then sickens anddies.  Do you know why?  Because during the First World War, a battlehad taken place on that field, a canister of mustard gas deployed.  Thepoison gets absorbed by the tree as a sapling, and decades later it'sstill potent enough to kill a man.""And that's Sigma, do you think?"Bartlett's gaze grew in intensity.  "They say the more you know, themore you know you don't know.  I find the more you know, the moreunsettling it is to come across things you don't know about.  Call itvanity, or call it caution.  I worry about what becomes of unseen littlesaplings."  A wan smile.  "The crooked timber of humanity it alwayscomes down to the crooked timber.  Yes, I appreciate that all thissounds like ancient history to you, and perhaps it is, Agent Navarro.You'll come back and set me straight.""I wonder," she said."Now, you'll be making contact with various law-enforcement officials,and as far as anyone knows, you'll be conducting a completely openhomicide investigation.  Why the involvement of an OSI agent?  Yourexplanation will be terse: because these names have cropped up in thecourse of an ongoing investigation into the fraudulent transfer offunds, the details of which nobody will press you to disclose.  A simplecover, nothing elaborate required.""I'll pursue the sort of investigation I've been trained to do," Annasaid warily.  "That's all I can promise.""That's all I'm asking for," Bartlett replied smoothly.  "Yourskepticism may be well founded.  But one way or the other, I'd like tobe sure.  Go to Nova Scotia.  Assure me that Robert Mailhot really diddie of natural causes.  Or confirm that he didn't."CHAPTER FOUR.Ben was driven to the headquarters of the Kantonspolizei, the police ofthe canton of Zurich, a grimy yet elegant old stone building onZeughausstrasse.  He was led in through an underground parking garage bytwo silent young policemen and up several long flights of stairs into arelatively modern building that adjoined the older one.  The interiorlooked like it belonged in a suburban American high school, circa 1975.To any of his questions, his two escorts answered only with shrugs.His thoughts raced.  It was no accident that Cavanaugh was there onBahnhofstrasse.  Cavanaugh had been in Zurich with the deliberate intentto murder him.  Somehow the body had disappeared, had been removedswiftly and expertly, and the gun planted in his bag.  It was clear thatothers were involved with Cavanaugh, professionals.  But who--and,again, why?Ben was taken first to a small fluorescent-lit room and seated in frontof a stainless-steel table.  As his police escorts remained standing, aman in a short white coat emerged and, without making eye contact, said,"Ihre Hande, bitte."  Ben extended his hands.  It was pointless toargue, he knew.  The technician pumped a mist from a plastic spraybottle on both sides of his hands, then rubbed a cotton-tipped plasticswab lightly but thoroughly over the back of his right hand.  Then heplaced the swab in a plastic tube.  He repeated the exercise for thepalm, and then did the same with Ben's other hand.  Four swabs nowreposed in four carefully labeled plastic tubes, and the technician tookthem with him as he left the room.A few minutes later, Ben arrived at a pleasant, sparely furnished officeon the third floor, where a broad-shouldered, stocky man in plainclothesintroduced himself as Thomas Schmid, a homicide detective. He had awide, pockmarked face and a very short haircut with short bangs.  Forsome reason Ben remembered a Swiss woman he'd once met at Gstaad tellinghim that cops in Switzerland were called bull en "bulls," and this mandemonstrated why.Schmid began asking Ben a series of questions--name, date of birth,passport number, hotel in Zurich, and so on.  He sat at a computerterminal, typing out the answers with one finger.  A pair of readingglasses hung from his neck.Ben was angry, tired, and frustrated, his patience worn thin.  It tookgreat effort to keep his tone light.  "Detective," he said, "am I underarrest or not?""No, sir.""Well, this has been fun and all, but if you're not going to arrest me,I'd like to head on back to my hotel.""We would be happy to arrest you if you'd like," the detective repliedblandly, the barest glint of menace in his smile.  "We have a very nicecell waiting for you.  But if we can keep this friendly, it will all bemuch simpler.""Aren't I allowed to make a phone call?"Schmid extended both hands, palms up, at the beige phone at the edge ofhis crowded desk.  "You may call the American consulate here, or yourattorney.  As you wish.""Thank you," Ben said, picking up the phone and glancing at his watch.It was early afternoon in New York.  Hartman Capital Management'sin-house attorneys all practiced tax or securities law, so he decided tocall a friend who practiced international law.Howie Rubin and he had been on the Deerfield ski racing team togetherand had become close friends.  Howie had come to Bedford several timesfor Thanksgiving and, like all of Ben's friends, had particularly takento Ben's mother.The attorney was at lunch, but Ben's call was patched through to Howie'scell phone.  Restaurant noise in the background made Howie's end of theconversation hard to make out."Christ, Ben," Howie said, interrupting Ben's summary.  Someone next tohim was talking loudly.  "All right, I'll tell you what I tell all myclients who get arrested while on ski vacations in Switzerland.  Grinand bear it.  Don't get all high and mighty.  Don't play the indignantAmerican.  No one can grind you down with rules and regulations andeverything-by the-book like the Swiss."Ben glanced at Schmid, who was tapping at his keyboard and no doubtlistening.  "I'm beginning to see that.  So what am I supposed to do?""The way it works in Switzerland, they can hold you for up to twentyfour hours without actually arresting you.""You're kidding me.""And if you piss them off, they can throw you in a dirty little holdingcell overnight.  So don't.""Then what do you recommend?""Hartman, you can charm a dog off a meat truck, buddy boy, so just beyour usual self.  Any problems, call me and I'll get on the phone andthreaten an international incident.  One of my partners does a lot ofcorporate espionage work, point being we've got access to some prettyhigh-powered databases.  I'll pull Cavanaugh's records, see what we canfind.  Give me the phone number where you are right now."When Ben had hung up, Schmid led him into an adjoining room and sat himat a desk near another terminal.  "Have you been to Switzerland before?"Schmid asked pleasantly, as if he were a tour guide."A number of times," Ben said.  "Mostly to ski."Schmid nodded distractedly.  "A popular recreation.  Very good forrelieving stress, I think.  Very good for letting off tension."  Hisgaze narrowed.  "You must have a lot of stress from your work.""I wouldn't say that.""Stress can make people do remarkable things.  Day after day they bottleit up, and then, one day, boom!  They explode.  When this happens, theysurprise themselves, I think, as much as other people.""As I told you, the gun was planted.  I never used it."  Ben was livid,but he spoke as coolly as he could.  It would do no good to provoke thedetective."And yet by your own account, you killed a man, bludgeoned him with yourbare hands.  Is this something you do in your normal line of work?""These were hardly normal circumstances.""If I were to talk to your friends, Mr.  Hartman, what would they tellme about you?  Would they say you had a temper?"  He gave Ben an oddlycontemplative look.  "Would they say you were ... a violent man?""They'd tell you I'm as law abiding as they come," Ben said.  "Where areyou going with these questions?"  Ben looked down at his own hands,hands that had slammed a lamp fixture against Cavanaugh's skull.  Was heviolent?  The detective's imputations were preposterous he'd actedpurely in self-defense and yet his mind drifted back a few years.He could see Darnell's face even now.  One of his fifth-graders at EastNew York, Darnel!  had been a good kid, an A student, bright andcurious, the best in his class.  Then something happened to him.  Hisgrades dropped, and before long he stopped handing in homeworkaltogether.  Darnell never got in fights with the other kids, and yetfrom time to time welts would be visible on his face.  Ben talked to himafter class one day.  Darnell couldn't look him in the eye.  Hisexpression was cloudy with fear.  Finally he told him that Orlando, hismother's new boyfriend, didn't want him to waste time on schoolwork; heneeded him to help bring in money.  "Bring in money how?"  Ben hadasked, but Darnell wouldn't answer.  When he telephoned Darnell'smother, Joyce Stuart, her responses were skittish, evasive.  Shewouldn't come into the school, refused to discuss the situation, refusedto admit anything might be wrong.  She, too, sounded scared.  A few dayslater, he found Darnell's address from student records and paid a visit.Darnell lived on the second floor of a building with a ruined facade, astairwell festooned with graffiti.  The buzzer was broken, but theapartment door was unlocked, and so he traipsed up the stairs andknocked on 2B.  After a long wait, Darnell's mother appeared, visiblybattered her cheeks bruised, her lips swollen.  He introduced himselfand asked to come in.  Joyce paused, then led him toward the smallkitchen, with its deeply gouged countertops of beige Formica and yellowcotton drapes flapping in the breeze.Ben heard yelling in the background before the mother's boyfriend strodeover.  "Who the fuck are you?"  demanded Orlando, a tall, powerfullybuilt man in a red tank top and loose jeans.  Ben recognized a convict'sphysique: an upper body so overdeveloped that the muscles looked drapedover his chest and shoulders like a life jacket"He's Darnell's schoolteacher," Darnell's mother said, the words cottonyfrom her bruised lips."And you are you Darnell's guardian?"  Ben asked Orlando."Hell, you could say I'm his teacher now.  Only, I'm teaching him shithe needs to know.  Unlike you."Now Ben saw Darnell, fear making him look even younger than his tenyears, padding into the kitchen to join them.  "Go away, Darnell," hismother said in a half-whisper."Darnell don't need you filling his head with bullshit.  Darnell needsto learn how to move rocks."  Orlando smiled, revealing a gleaming goldfront.Ben felt a jolt.  Moving rocks: selling crack.  "He's a fifth-grader.He's ten years old.""That's right.  A juvenile.  Cops know he ain't worth arresting."  Helaughed.  "I gave him the choice, though: he could either peddle rocksor peddle his ass."The words, the man's casual brutality, sickened Ben, but he forcedhimself to speak calmly.  "Darnell has more potential than anyone in hisclass.  You have a duty to let him excel."Orlando snorted.  "He can make his living on the street, same as me."Then he heard Darnell's treble voice, shaky but resolute.  "I don't wantto do it anymore," he told Orlando.  "Mr.  Hartman knows what's right."Then, louder, bravely: "I don't want to be like you."Joyce Stuart's features froze in a preemptive cringe: "Don't, Darnell."It was too late.  Orlando lashed out, cracking the ten-year-old in thejaw, the blow propelling him out of the room.  He turned to Ben: "Nowget your ass out of here.  In fact, let me help you."Ben felt himself stiffen as rage coursed through his body.  Orlandoslammed his open hand against Ben's chest, but instead of staggeringbackward, Ben lunged toward him, pounding a fist into the man's temple,then another, pummeling his head like a speed bag  Stunned, Orlandofroze for a crucial few moments, and then his powerful arms bangeduselessly against Ben's sides Ben was too close for him to land a punch.And the frenzy of rage was an anaesthetic, anyway: Ben didn't even feelthe body blows until Orlando slid limply to the floor.  He was down, notout.Orlando's eyes flicked at him, the leering defrance replaced by fear."You crazy," he murmured.Was he?  What had come over him?  "If you ever touch Darnell again," Bensaid, with a deliberate calm he did not feel, "I will kill you." Hepaused between each word for emphasis.  "Do we understand each other?"Later, from his friend Carmen in social services, he'd find out thatOrlando left Joyce and Darnell later that day, never to return.  If Benhadn't been told, though, he soon would have guessed from the dramaticimprovement in Darnell's grades and general demeanor."All right, man," Orlando had said at the time, in a subdued tone,gazing up at him from the kitchen floor.  "See, we just had amisunderstanding."  He coughed.  "I ain't looking for more trouble." Hecoughed again and murmured, "You crazy.  You crazy.""Mr.  Hartman, can you please put your right thumb here?"  Schmidindicated a small white oblong marked identix touch view on top of whicha small oval glass panel glowed ruby red.Ben placed his right thumb on the glass oval, then did the same with hisleft.  His prints appeared immediately, much enlarged, on a computermonitor angled partly toward him.Schmid tapped in a few numbers and hit the return key, setting off thehigh-pitched screech of a modem.  He turned toward Ben and saidapologetically, "This goes right to Bern.  We will know in five or tenminutes.""Know what?"The detective rose and gestured for Ben to follow him back to the firstroom.  "Whether there is already a warrant for your arrest inSwitzerland.""I think I might remember if there was one."Schmid stared at him a long time before he started to speak.  "I knowyour type, Mr.  Hartman.  For rich Americans like you, Switzerland is acountry of chocolates, banks, cuckoo clocks, and ski resorts.  You'dlike to imagine that each of us is your Hausdiener, your manservant,yes?  But you do know Switzerland.  For centuries, every European powerwished to make us its duchy.  None ever succeeded.  Now maybe yourcountry, with its power and wealth, thinks it can do the same.  But youare not what is your expression 'calling the shots' here.  There is nochocolate for you in this office.  And it is not up to you to decidewhen, or whether, you are released."  He leaned back in his chair,smiling gravely.  "Welcome to Switzerland, Herr Hartman."Another man, tall and thin, in a heavily starched white lab coat, cameinto the room as if on cue.  He wore rimless glasses and had a smallbristle mustache.  Without introducing himself, he pointed to a whitetiled section of the wall marked with metric gradations.  "You willplease to stand there," he ordered.Trying not to show his exasperation, Ben stood with his back flatagainst the tiles.  The technician measured his height, then led him toa white lab sink, where he turned a lever that extruded a white pasteand instructed Ben to wash his hands.  The soap was creamy yet grittyand smelled of lavender.  At another station, the tech rolled stickyblack ink onto a glass plate and had Ben place each hand flat onto it.With long, delicate, manicured fingers, he rolled each of Ben's fingersfirst on blotter paper, then carefully onto separate squares on a form.While the technician worked, Schmid got up and went into the adjoiningroom, then returned a few moments later.  "Well, Mr.  Hartman, we didnot get a hit.  There is no warrant outstanding.""What a surprise," Ben muttered.  He felt oddly relieved."Still, there are questions.  The ballistics will come back in a fewdays from the Wissenschaftlicher Dienst der Stadtpolizei Zurich -theballistics lab but we already know that the bullets recovered from theplatform are ,765 Browning.""Is that a kind of bullet?"  Ben asked innocently."It is the sort of ammunition used in the gun that was found during thesearch of your luggage.""Well, what do you know," Ben said, forcing a smile, then tried anothertack: bluntness.  "Look, there's no question the bullets were fired bythe gun in question.  Which was planted in my luggage.  So why don't youjust do whatever that test is on my hands that tells you whether I fireda gun?""The gunshot residue analysis.  We've already done it."  Schmid mimed aswabbing motion."And the results?""We'll have them soon.  After you are photographed.""You won't find my fingerprints on the gun either."  Thank God I didn'thandle it, Ben thought.The detective shrugged theatrically.  "Fingerprints can be removed.""Well, the witnesses ""The eyewitnesses describe a well-dressed man of about your age.  Therewas much confusion.  But five people are dead, seven seriously injured.Again, you tell us you killed the perpetrator.  Yet when we look thereis no body.""I I can't explain that," Ben admitted, aware of how bizarre his accountsounded.  "Obviously the body was removed and the area cleaned. Thatjust tells me that Cavanaugh was working with others.""To kill you."  Schmid regarded him with dark amusement."So it appears.""But you offer no motive.  You say there was no grudge between the twoof you.""You don't seem to understand," Ben said quietly.  "I hadn't seen theguy in fifteen years."The phone on Schmid's desk rang.  He picked it up.  "Schmid."  Helistened.  In English, he said, "Yes, one minute, please," and handedthe receiver to Ben.It was Howie.  "Ben, old buddy," he said, his voice now as clear as ifhe were calling from the next room.  "You did say Jimmy Cavanaugh wasfrom Homer, New York, right?""Small town midway between Syracuse and Binghamton," Ben said."Right," Howie said.  "And he was in your class at Princeton?""That's the guy.""Well, here's the thing.  Your Jimmy Cavanaugh doesn't exist.""Tell me something I don't know," Ben said.  He's dead as a doornail."No, Ben, listen to me.  I'm saying your Jimmy Cavanaugh never existed.I'm saving there is no Jimmy Cavanaugh.  I checked with alumni recordsat Princeton.  No Cavanaugh, first or middle initial J, ever enrolled inthe school, at least not in the decade you attended.  And there havenever been any Cavanaughs in Homer.  Not anywhere in that county.  Notat Georgetown, either.  Oh, and we checked with all sorts of hifalutindatabases, too.  If there were a James Cavanaugh that came close tomatching your description, we'd have found him.  Tried every spellingvariant, too.  You have no idea how powerful the databases are they'vegot these days.  A person leaves tracks like a slug, we all do. Credit,Social Security, military, you name it.  This guy's totally off thegrid.  Weird, huh?""There's got to be some mistake.  I know he was enrolled at Princeton.""You think you know that.  Doesn't seem possible, does it?"Ben felt sick to his stomach.  "If this is true, it doesn't help us.""No," Howie agreed.  "But I'll keep trying.  Meantime, you got mycellular, right?"Ben replaced the receiver, stunned.  Schmid continued: "Mr.  Hartman,were you here on business or holiday?"He forced himself to focus, and spoke as civilly as he could.  "Skivacation, as I said.  I had a couple of bank meetings, but only becauseI was passing through Zurich."  Jimmy Cavanaugh never existed.Schmid clasped his hands.  "The last time you were in Switzerland wasfour years ago, yes?  To claim the body of your brother?"Ben paused a moment, unable to stop the sudden flood of memories.  Thephone call in the middle of the night: never good news.  He'd beenasleep next to Karen, a fellow teacher, in his grubby apartment in EastNew York.  He grumbled, rolled over to answer the call that changedeverything.A small rented plane Peter was flying solo had crashed a few daysearlier in a gorge near Lake Lucerne.  Ben's name was listed on therental papers as next-of-kin.  It had taken time to identify thedeceased, but dental records made a definitive identification possible.The Swiss authorities were ruling it an accident.  Ben flew to LakeLucerne to claim the body and brought his brother home--what was left ofhim after the fuselage had exploded--in a little cardboard carton notmuch bigger than a cake box.The entire plane flight home he didn't cry.  That would only come later,when the numbness began to wear off.  His father had collapsed, weeping,upon hearing the news; his mother, already confined to bed because ofthe cancer, had screamed with all of her strength."Yes," Ben said quietly.  "That was the last time I was here.""A striking fact.  When you come to our country, death seems toaccompany you.""What are you getting at?""Mr.  Hartman," Schmid said, in a more neutral tone of voice, "do youthink there is any connection between your brother's death and whathappened today?"At the headquarters of the Swiss national police, the Stadtpolizei, inBern, a plump middle-aged woman with heavy black horn-rimmed glassesglanced up at her computer screen and was surprised to see a line oftext begin to flash.  After staring at it for a few seconds, sheremembered what she had long ago been instructed to do, and she jotteddown the name and the long series of numbers after the name.  Then sheknocked at the glass-paned door of her immediate supervisor."Sir," she said.  "A name on the RIPOL watch list was just activated."RIPOL was an acronym for Recherche Informations Policier, the nationalcriminal and police database that contained names, fingerprints, licenseplate numbers--a vast range of law-enforcement data used by the federal,canton, and local police.Her boss, a priggish man in his mid-forties who was known to be on thefast track at the Stadtpolizei, took the slip of paper, thanked hisloyal secretary, and dismissed her.  Once she had closed his officedoor, he picked up a secure phone that was not routed through the mainswitchboard, and dialed a number he rarely ever called.A battered old gray sedan of indeterminate make idled down the blockfrom Kantonspolizei headquarters on Zeughausstrasse.  Inside, two mensmoked and said nothing, weary from the long wait.  The sudden ringingof the cellular phone mounted on the center console startled them.  Thepassenger picked it up, listened, said, "Ja, danke,"* and hung up."The American is leaving the building," he said.A few minutes later they saw the American emerge from the side entranceand get into a taxi.  When it was halfway down the block, the driverpulled the car into the early-evening traffic.CHAPTER FIVE.Halifax, Nova ScotiaWhen the Air Canada pilot announced they were about to land, AnnaNavarro removed her files from the tray table, lifted it closed, andtried to focus her mind on the case ahead of her.  Flying terrified her,and the only thing worse than landing was taking off.  Her stomachflip-flopped.  As usual she fought an irrational conviction that theplane would crash and she would end her life in a fiery inferno.Her favorite uncle, Manuel, had been killed when the clattering old cropduster he worked in dropped an engine and plummeted.  But that was solong ago, she'd been ten or eleven, and a deathtrap crop duster had noresemblance to the sleek 747 she was in now.She'd never told any of her OSI colleagues about her anxiety, on thegeneral principle that you should never let them see yourvulnerabilities.  But she was convinced that somehow Arliss Dupree knew,the way a dog smells fear.  In the last six months he'd forced her topractically live on planes, flying from one lousy assignment to another.The only thing that allowed her to keep her composure was to spend theflight immersed in her case files.  They always absorbed her, fascinatedher.  The dry-as-dust autopsy and pathology reports beckoned to her tosolve their mysteries.As a child she'd loved doing the intricate five-hundred-piece puzzlesher mother brought home, the gifts from a woman whose house her mothercleaned and whose kids had no patience for puzzles.  Far more thanseeing the glossy image emerge, she loved the sound and feel of thepuzzle pieces snapping into place.  Often the old puzzles were missingpieces, lost by their careless original owners, and that had alwaysirritated her.  Even as a kid she'd been a perfectionist.On some level, this case was a thousand-piece puzzle spilled on thecarpet before her.During this Washington-Halifax flight she had pored over a folder ofdocuments faxed from the RCMP in Ottawa.  The Royal CanadianMounted Police, Canada's equivalent of the FBI, was, despite its archaicname, a top-notch investigative agency.  The working relationshipbetween DOJ and RCMP was good.Who are you?  she wondered, staring at a photograph of the old man.Robert Mailhot of Halifax, Nova Scotia, the kindly retiree, devoutmember of the Church of Our Lady of Mercy.  Not the sort of person you'dexpect to have a CIA clearance file, deep-storage or no.What could have connected him to the vaporous machinations of long-deadspy masters and businessmen that Bartlett had stumbled on?  She wascertain that Bartlett had a file on him, but had chosen not to give heraccess to it.  She was certain, too, that he wanted her to find out therelevant details for herself.A provincial judge in Nova Scotia agreed to issue a search warrant. Thedocuments she wanted--telephone and credit-card records--had been faxedto her in D.C. in a matter of hours.  She was OSI; nobody thought toquestion her vague cover story about an ongoing investigation intofraudulent international transfer of funds.Still, the file told her nothing.  The cause of death, recorded on thecertificate in the crabbed and almost illegible handwriting of aphysician, presumably the old man's doctor, was "natural causes," with"coronary thrombosis" added in brackets.  And maybe it was only that.The deceased had made no unusual purchases; his only longdistance callswere to Newfoundland and Toronto.  So far, no traction.  Maybe she'dfind the answer in Halifax.Or maybe not.She was intoxicated by the same strange brew of hope and despair shealways felt at the beginning of a case.  One minute she knew for sureshe'd crack it, the next it seemed impossible.  This much she knew forsure: the first homicide in a series she investigated was always themost important.  It was the benchmark.  Only if you were thorough, ifyou turned over every rock, did you have any hope of making connections.You'd never connect the dots unless you saw where all the dots were.Anna was wearing her travel suit, a navy-blue Donna Karan (though thecheaper line), and a white Ralph Lauren blouse (not couture, of course).She was known around the office for dressing impeccably.  On her salaryshe could scarcely afford designer labels, but she bought them anyway,living in a dark one-bedroom apartment in a lousy part of Washington,taking no vacations, because all her money went to clothes.Everyone assumed she dressed so nicely to make herself attractive tomen, because that was what young single women did.  They were wrong. Herclothes were body armor.  The finer the outfits, the safer and moresecure she felt.  She used designer cosmetics and wore designer clothesbecause then she was no longer the daughter of the dirt-poor Mexicanimmigrants who cleaned the houses and tended the yards of rich people.Then she could be anyone.  She was self-aware enough to know howridiculous this was in rational terms.  But she did it anyway.She wondered what it was about her that rankled Arliss Dupree more--thatshe was an attractive woman who'd turned him down, or that she was aMexican.  Maybe both.  Maybe in the world according to Dupree, aMexican-American was inferior and therefore had no right to reject him.She had grown up in a small town in Southern California.  Both herparents were Mexicans who'd escaped the desolation, the disease, thehopelessness south of the border.  Her mother, soft-spoken and gentle,cleaned houses; her father, quiet and introverted, did yard workWhen she was in grade school she wore dresses sewn by her mother, whoalso braided her brown hair and put it up.  She was aware that shedressed differently, that she didn't quite fit in, but it didn't botherher until she was ten or eleven, when the girls started forming ironcliques that excluded her.  They'd never associate with the daughter ofthe woman who cleaned their houses.She was uncool, an outsider, an embarrassment.  She was invisible.Not that she was in a minority--the high school was half-Latino, halfwhite, the lines rarely crossed.  She got used to being called "wetback"and "spic" by some of the white girls and guys.  But among the Latinosthere were castes, too, and she was at the bottom.  The Latino girlsalways dressed well, and they mocked her clothes even more viciouslythan the white girls did.The solution, she decided, was to dress like all the other girls.  Shebegan to complain to her mother, who didn't take her seriously at first,then explained that they couldn't afford to buy the kind of clothes theother girls had, and anyway, what was the difference, really?  Didn'tshe like her mother's homemade clothes?  Anna would snap, "No!  I hatethem!"  knowing full well how much the words hurt. Even today, twentyyears later, Anna could barely think about those days without feelingguiltHer mother was beloved by all her employers.  One of them, a genuinelyrich woman, began donating all of her children's castoffs.  Anna worethem happily--she couldn't imagine why anyone would throw away such fineclothes!--until she gradually came to realize that her clothes were alllast year's fashions, and then her ardor cooled.  One day she waswalking down the hall at school and one of the girls in a clique shevery much wanted to join called her over.  "Hey," the girl said, "that'smy skirt!"  Blushing, Anna denied it.  The girl stuck a probing fingerunder the hem and turned it over to reveal her initials inked on thetag.The RCMP officer who picked her up at the airport, Anna knew, had spenta year at the FBI Academy learning homicide investigation techniques. Hewas not the sharpest knife in the drawer, she'd heard, but a good sort.He stood outside the security gate, a tall, handsome thirtyish man in ablue blazer and red tie.  He flashed a pearly smile, seemingly genuinelyhappy to see her.  "Welcome to Nova Scotia," he said.  "I'm RonArsenault."  Dark-haired, brown-eyed, lantern jaw, high forehead. DudleyDo Right, she thought to herself."Anna Navarro," she said, shaking his hand firmly.  Men always expectwomen to shake like a dead fish, so she always gave them her firmesthandshake; it set the tone, let them know she was one of the guys. "Niceto meet you."He reached out for her carry-on garment bag, but she shook her head,smiled.  "I'm O.K."  thanks.""This your first time in Halifax?"  He was obviously checking her out."Yeah.  It looks beautiful from above."He chuckled politely as he guided her through the terminal.  "I'll beliaising with the Halifax locals for you.  You got the records O.K.?""Thanks.  Everything but the bank records.""Those should be in by now.  If I find them I'll drop them by yourhotel.""Thanks.""Sure thing."  He squinted at something: contact lenses, Anna knew."Tell you the truth, Miss Navarro--Anna?--some folks back in Ottawacan't quite figure why you're taking such an interest in the old geezer.Eighty-seven-year-old man dies in his home, natural causes, you gottaexpect that, you know?"They had reached the parking lot."The body's in the police morgue?"  she asked."Actually, in the morgue of the local hospital.  Waiting in the fridgefor you.  You got to us before the old guy was planted, that's the goodnews.""And the bad news?""Body had already been embalmed for burial."She winced.  "That might screw up the tox screen."They got to a dark blue, late-model Chevrolet sedan that screamed"unmarked police vehicle."  He opened the trunk and put her bag in.They drove for a while in silence."Who's the widow?"  she asked.  It wasn't in the file. French Canadiantoo?""A local.  Haligonian.  Former schoolteacher.  Tough old biddy, too.  Imean, I feel bad for the lady, she's just lost her husband, and thefuneral was supposed to be tomorrow.  We had to ask her to put it off.She had relatives coming in from Newfoundland, too.  When we mentionedautopsy she wigged out."  He glanced over at her, then back to the road."Given how it's evening, I thought you could settle in, and we can getstarted bright and early tomorrow morning.  ME's going to meet us atseven."She felt a pang of disappointment.  She wanted to go right to work."Sounds good," she said.More silence.  It was good to have a liaison officer who didn't seem toresent an emissary from the U.S. government.  Arsenault was as friendlyas could be.  Maybe too much so."Here's your inn.  Your government doesn't exactly spend the big bucks,hey?"It was an unlovely Victorian house on Barrington Street, a large woodenbuilding painted white with green shutters.  The white paint had beensoiled to a dirty gray."Hey, so let me take you out to dinner, unless you've got other plans.Maybe Clipper Cay, if you like seafood.  Maybe catch some jazz at theMiddle Deck ... ?"  He parked the car."Thanks, but I've had a long day," she said.He shrugged, his disappointment obvious.The inn had a faintly musty smell, as from a baseboard dampness thatnever quite went away.  An old-fashioned carbon was made of her creditcard and a brass key provided; she was prepared to tell the beefy guy atthe front desk that she didn't need help with her bags, but none wasvolunteered.  The same slight mustiness pervaded her room, on the secondfloor, which was decorated in floral patterns.  Everything in it lookedworn, but not objection ably so.  She hung her clothes in the closet,drew the curtains, and changed into gray sweats.  A nice run would doher good, she decided.She jogged along the Grand Parade, the square on the west side ofBarrington Street, then up George Street to the star-shaped fortresscalled The Citadel.  She stopped, panting, at a newsstand and picked upa map of the city.  She found the address; it wasn't far at all fromwhere she was staying.  She could reach it in her run.Robert Mailhot's house was unremarkable but comfortable-looking, atwo-story gray clapboard with a gabled roof, practically hidden in awooded patch of land behind a chain-link fence.The blue light of a television flickered behind lace curtains in a frontroom.  The widow, presumably, was watching TV.  Anna stopped for amoment across the street, watching intently.She decided to cross the narrow street to take a closer look.  Shewanted to see if it was indeed the widow, and if so, how she wasbehaving.  Did she appear to be in mourning or not?  Such thingscouldn't always be intuited simply by observing at a distance, but younever knew what you might pick up.  And if Anna positioned herself inthe shadows outside the house, she might not be seen by suspiciousneighbors.The street was deserted, though music played from one house, a TV fromanother, and a foghorn sounded in the distance.  She crossed toward thehouseSuddenly, a pair of high-intensity headlights appeared out of nowhere.They blinded her, growing larger and brighter as a vehicle roared towardher.  With a scream, Anna lunged toward the curb, unseeing, desperatelytrying to jump out of the way of the insane, out-of-control car.  Itmust have been gliding down the street, lights off, its quiet enginenoise masked by the ambient street noise, until it was but a few feetaway, then suddenly switched on its lights.And now it was barreling toward her!  There was no mistaking it, the carwasn't slowing, wasn't moving straight down the road like an automobilesimply going far too fast.  It veered toward the shoulder of the road,toward the curb, heading right at her.  Anna recognized the verticalchrome grill of a Lincoln Town Car, its flattened rectangular headlightssomehow giving it a predatory, sharklike appearance.Move!The car's wheels squealed, the engine at full throttle, as the maniacalcar bore down on her.She turned around to see it hurtling at her just ten or twenty feetaway, the headlights dazzling.  Terrified, screaming, a split-secondaway from death, she leaped into the boxwood hedge that surrounded thehouse next to the widow's, the stiff, prickly branches scraping at hersweatpants-covered legs, and rolled over an dover on the small lawn.She heard the crunch of the car hitting the boxwood, then the loudsqueal of tires as she looked up to see the car veer away from her,spraying mud everywhere, the powerful engine racing down the narrow darkroad, and then the headlights vanished just as abruptly as they hadappeared.The car was gone.What had just happened?She jumped to her feet, her heart thudding, adrenaline floodingthroughout her body, the terror weakening her knees so that she couldbarely stand up.What the hell was that all about?The car had headed right for her, quite deliberately targeting her, asif trying to run her down.And then ... it had unaccountably disappeared!She noticed several faces looking through windows on either side of thestreet, some of them closing drapes as soon as she noticed them.If the car had for some reason been aiming for her, trying to kill her,why hadn't it finished the job?It was entirely illogical, maddeningly so.She walked, panting deeply, coughing painfully, drenched with sweat. Shetried to clear her head, but the fear would not leave her, and sheremained unable to make sense of the bizarre incident.Had someone just tried to kill her, or not?And if so why?Could it have been a drunk, a joyrider?  The car's motions had seemedfar too deliberate, too elaborately choreographed for that.The only logical answers required a paranoid mind-set, and she adamantlyrefused to allow her thoughts to go in that direction.  That way madnesslies.  She thought of Harriett's ominous words about decades-old planshatched in utmost secrecy, old men with secrets to hide, powerful peopledesperate to protect reputations.  But Bartlett was a man who, by hisown admission, sat in an office surrounded by yellowed paper, farremoved from reality, a setting all too conducive to the weaving ofconspiracy theories.Still, was it not possible that the incident with the car had been anattempt to frighten her off the case?If so, they had picked the wrong person to try such a technique on. Forit served only to stiffen her determination to find out what the realstory was.LondonThe pub, called the Albion, was located on Garrick Street, at the edgeof Covent Garden.  It had low ceilings, rough-hewn wooden tables, andsawdust floors, the sort of place that had twenty real ales on tap andserved bangers and mash, kidney pudding, and spotted dick, and wasjammed at lunchtime with a stylish crowd of bankers and advertisingexecutives.Jean-Luc Passard, a junior security officer for the Corporation, enteredthe pub and saw at once why the Englishman had chosen this place tomeet.  It was so dense with people that the two of them would certainlygo unnoticed.The Englishman was sitting alone in a booth.  He was as described: anondescript man of about forty, with bristly, prematurely gray hair. Oncloser inspection, his face was smooth, almost tight, as if fromsurgery.  He wore a blue blazer and white turtleneck.  His shoulderswere broad, his waist narrow; he looked, even at a distance, physicallyimposing.  Yet you would not pick him out in a lineup.Passard sat down at the booth, put out his hand.  "I'm JeanLuc.""Trevor Griffiths," the Englishman said.  He shook hands with barely anypressure at all, the greeting of a man who did not care what you thoughtof him.  His hand was large, smooth, and dry."It's an honor to meet you," Passard said.  "Your services to theCorporation over the years are the stuff of legend."Trevor's dead gray eyes showed nothing."We wouldn't have brought you out of your ... retirement if it weren'tabsolutely necessary.""You screwed up.""We had bad luck.""You want a backup.""An insurance policy, so to say.  An added safeguard.  We really can'tafford to fail.""I work alone.  You know this.""Of course.  Your record puts your methods beyond second-guessing.  Youwill handle the matter as you see best.""Good.  Now, do we know the target's whereabouts?""He was last spotted in Zurich.  We're not certain where he's headednext."Trevor cocked an eyebrow.Passard flushed.  "He is an amateur.  He surfaces periodically.  We willpick up his trail again soon.""I will require a good set of photographs of the target from as manyangles as you have."Passard slid a large manila envelope across the table.  "Done.  Also,here are the encoded instructions.  As you'll understand, we want thejob to be done quickly and untraceably."Trevor Griffiths's stare reminded Passard of a boa constrictor.  "Youhave already brought in several second-raters.  Not only have youthereby lost both money and time, but you have alerted the target.  Heis now fearful, cautious, and no doubt has been frightened intodepositing documents with attorneys to be mailed in the event of hisdemise, that sort of thing.  He will therefore be considerably moredifficult to take out.  Neither you nor your superiors need to advise meon how to do my job.""But you're confident you can do it, yes?""I assume that was why you came to me?""Yes.""Then please don't ask foolish questions.  Are we done here?  Because Ihave a busy afternoon ahead of me."Anna returned to her room at the inn, poured a tiny screw-top bottle ofwhite wine from the minibar into a plastic cup, downed it, and then rana bath, making the water as hot as she could stand.  For fifteenminutes, she soaked herself, trying to think calming thoughts, but theimage of the Town Car's vertical chrome grill kept intruding on herconsciousness.  And she remembered the Ghost's soft-spoken remark: "/don't believe in coincidences, do you, Ms.  Navarro?"Slowly, her sense of self-possession returned to her.  These thingshappened, didn't they?  Part of her job was to know where significancemight lie, but it was an occupational hazard to impute significancewhere there was none.Presently, she slipped into a terry-cloth robe, feeling much calmer andnow ravenously hungry.  Slipped beneath the door of her room was amanila envelope.  She picked it up and sank into a floral-upholsteredarmchair.  Copies of Mailhot's bank statements going back four years.The phone rang.It was Sergeant Arsenault."So is half past ten going to be all right for our visit with thewidow?"  Around him she could hear the bustle of a police station in theevening."I'll meet you there at ten-thirty," Anna replied crisply.  "Thanks forthe confirmation."  She debated whether to tell him about the Town Car,her brush with death, but held back.  Somehow she was afraid that itwould diminish her authority--that she would sound vulnerable, fearful,easily spooked."Right, then," Arsenault said, and there was a hesitation in his voice."Well, I guess I'll be heading home.  I don't suppose--I'll be drivingby your way, so if you have any second thoughts about grabbing a bite..."  He spoke haltingly.  "Or having a nightcap."  He was obviouslytrying to keep it light.  "Or whatever."Anna didn't reply immediately.  In truth, she wouldn't have mindedcompany just then.  "That's nice of you to offer," she said finally."But I'm really tired.""Me, too," he said quickly.  "Long day.  All right, then.  See you inthe morning."  His voice had subtly shifted: no longer a man talking toa woman, but one professional talking to another.She hung up with a slight sense of emptiness.  Then she closed thecurtains to the room and started sorting through her documents.  Therewas still plenty of stuff to work through.She was convinced that the real reason she hadn't yet gotten married,had veered away from any relationship that seemed to be getting tooserious, was that she wanted to control her own surroundings.  You getmarried, you're accountable to someone else.  You want to buy something,you have to justify it.  You can no longer work late without feelingguilty, having to apologize, to negotiate.  Your time is under newmanagement.At the office people who didn't know her well called her the "IceMaiden" and probably a lot worse, mostly because she dated infrequently.It wasn't just Dupree.  People didn't like to see attractive womenunattached.  It offended their sense of the natural order of things.What they failed to realize was that she was a genuine workaholic andseldom socialized, hardly had time to meet men anyway.  The only pool ofmen she could draw from were in the OSI, and dating a colleague couldonly mean trouble.Or so she told herself.  She preferred not to dwell on the incident inhigh school that still shadowed her, but she thought of Brad Reedyalmost daily, and with ferocious hatred.  On the Metro she'd catch awhiff of the citrus cologne Brad used to wear and her heart would spasmwith fear, then reflexive anger.  Or she'd see on the street a tallblond teenage boy in a red-and-white-striped rugby shirt, and she'd seeBrad.She had been sixteen, physically a woman and, she was told, a beauty,though she didn't yet know it or believe it.  She still had few friends,but she no longer felt like an outcast.  She quarreled with her parentsalmost daily because she could no longer stand to live in their tinyhouse; she felt claustrophobic, she couldn't breathe.Brad Reedy was a senior and a hockey player, and therefore a member ofthe school's aristocracy.  She was a junior and couldn't believe it whenBrad Reedy, the Brad Reedy, had stopped by her locker and asked if shewanted to go out sometime.  She thought it was a joke, that he'd beenput up to it or something, and she scoffed, turning away.  Already she'dbegun to develop a protective layer of sarcasm.But he persisted.  She flushed, went numb, said I guess, maybe,sometime.Brad offered to pick her up at her house, but she couldn't bear thethought of his seeing how humble it was, so she pretended she haderrands to do downtown anyway and insisted on meeting at the movietheater.  For days before, she pored over Mademoiselle and Glamour.  Ina Seventeen magazine feature on "How to Catch His Eye" she found theperfect outfit, the sort of thing a rich, classy girl might wear, thekind of girl Brad's parents would approve of.She wore a Laura Ashley tiny floral-print dress with a high ruffledcollar she'd bought at Goodwill, which she realized only after shebought it didn't fit quite right.  In her matching lime-greenespadrilles and lime green Pappagallo Bermuda bag and lime-greenheadband, she suddenly felt ridiculous, a little girl dressing up forHalloween.  When she met Brad, who was wearing a ripped pair of jeansand a striped rugby shirt, she realized how overdressed she was.  Shelooked like she was trying too hard.She felt as if the entire theater were watching her enter, thisoverdressed fake preppy with this golden boy.He wanted to go out to the Ship's Pub for pizza and a beer afterward.She had a Tab and tried to play mysterious and hard to get, but shealready had a wild crush on this teenage Adonis and still couldn'tbelieve she was on a date with him.After three, four beers, he began to get coarse.  He drew close to herin the booth and put his hands on her.  She pleaded a headache--it wasthe only thing she could think of on the spur of the moment--and askedhim to drive her home.  He took her out to the Porsche, drove crazily,and then made a "wrong turn" into the park.He was a two-hundred-pound man, incredibly strong, fueled by just enoughalcohol to make him dangerous, and he forcibly removed her clothes, puthis hand over her mouth to muffle her screams, and kept chanting, "Aw,you want it, you wetback bitch."This was her first time.For a year afterward she went to church regularly.  The guilt burnedinside her.  If her mother ever found out, she was sure, it woulddestroy her.It haunted her for years.And her mother continued to clean the Reedys' house.Now she remembered the bank records, tented on the armchair.  Couldn'task for more compelling reading material during a room-service dinner.After a few minutes, she noticed a line of figures, then looked at itagain.  How could this be right?  Four months ago, one million dollarshad been wired into Robert Mailhot's savings account.She sat down in the chair, looked more closely at the page.  She felt arush of adrenaline.  She studied the column of numbers for a long time,her excitement growing.  An image of Mailhot's modest clapboard housepopped into her head.A million dollars.This was becoming interesting.ZurichThe streetlights flashed by, illuminating the backseat of the taxi likethe jittery flashes of a strobe light.  Ben stared straight ahead,looking at nothing, thinking.The homicide detective had seemed disappointed when the lab resultsshowed that Ben hadn't fired the weapon, and processed his releasepapers with a show of reluctance.  Obviously, Howie had managed to pullsome strings to get his passport returned."I'm releasing you on one condition, Mr.  Hartman--that you get out ofmy canton," Schmid had told him.  "Leave Zurich at once.  If I ever findout you've returned here, it will not go well for you.  The inquiryconcerning the Bahnhofplatz shootings remains open, and there are enoughunanswered questions that I would have reason to swear out a warrant foryour arrest at any moment.  And if our immigrations office, theEinwanderungsbehorde, gets involved, you should remember that you can beheld in administrative detention for one year before your case reaches amagistrate.  You have friends and connections, very impressive ones, butthey will not be able to help you next time."But more than the threats, it was the question the detective had put socasually that haunted Ben.  Did the Bahnhofplatz nightmare have anythingto do with Peter's death?Ask it another way: What were the odds it didn't have anything to dowith Peter's death?  Ben always remembered what his college mentor, thePrinceton historian John Barnes Godwin, used to say: Calculate the odds,and recalculate, and recalculate again.  And then just go with your gutinstinct.His gut told him this was no coincidence.Then there was the mystery surrounding Jimmy Cavanaugh.  It wasn't justthe body that had disappeared.  It was his identity, his entireexistence.  How could such a thing happen?  And how had the shooterknown where Ben was staying?  It made no sense, none of it did.The disappearance of the body, the planting of the handgun--thatconfirmed that the man he knew as Cavanaugh had been working withothers.  But with whom?  Working on what?  What possible interest, whatpossible threat, could Ben Hartman be to anyone?Of course it had to do with Peter.  That had to be it.You see enough movies, you learn that bodies are "burned beyondrecognition" only when something's being covered up.  One of Ben'sfirst, desperate thoughts upon hearing the unbearable news had been thatmaybe there'd been a mix-up, that it wasn't really Peter Hartman who'ddied in that plane.  The authorities had made a mistake.  Peter wasstill alive, and he'd call, and they'd laugh over the bungle in a grimsort of way.  Ben had never dared suggest this to his father, notwanting to raise false hopes.  And then the medical evidence arrived,and it was irrefutable.Now, however, Ben began to focus on the real question: Not was it Peter,but how had he died?  A plane crash could be an efficient way to concealevidence of murder.And then again, maybe it had been a genuine accident.After all, who could have wanted Peter dead?  Murdering someone and thencrashing a plane--wasn't that a ludicrously elaborate coverup?But this afternoon had redefined what was within the realm ofplausibility.  Because if Cavanaugh, whoever he was, had tried to killhim, for whatever unfathomable reason, wasn't it likely he--or othersconnected with Cavanaugh--had also killed Peter four years ago?Howie had mentioned databases accessed by a colleague of his who didcorporate espionage work.  It struck Ben that Frederic McCall an theaged client he was supposed to meet at St.  Moritz, might be helpful inthis regard.  McCall an in addition to being a serious Wall Streetplayer, had served in more than one administration in Washington; he'dhave no shortage of contacts and connections.  Ben took out his multistandard Nokia phone and called the Hotel Carlton in St.  Moritz. TheCarlton was a quietly elegant place, opulent without being ostentatious,with a remarkable glassed-in pool overlooking the lake.His call was put right through to Frederic McCall an room."You're not standing us up, I hope," old Frederic said jovially. "Louisewill be devastated."  Louise was his allegedly beautiful granddaughter."Not at all.  Things got a little hectic here, and I missed the lastflight to Chur."  Strictly speaking this was true."Well, we had them set a place for you at dinner, figuring you'd show upeventually.  When can we expect you?""I'm going to rent a car and drive up tonight.""Drive?  But that'll take you hours!""It's a pleasant drive," he said.  And a long drive was precisely whathe needed to clear his head right now."Surely you can charter a flight if you have to.""Can't," he said without elaborating.  The fact was, he wanted to avoidthe airport, where others--if there were others--might be expecting him."I'll see you at breakfast, Freddie."The taxicab took Ben to an Avis on Gartenhofstrasse, where he rented anOpel Omega, got directions, and set off without incident on the A3highway, heading southeast out of Zurich.  It took a while to get thefeel of the road, the great speed at which Swiss drivers raced alongtheir main highways, the aggressive way they signaled that they wantedto pass by pulling up right behind you and flashing their high beams.Once or twice he had a flash of paranoia--a green Audi seemed to befollowing him but then disappeared.  After a while he began to feel asif he'd left all that madness behind in Zurich.  Soon he'd be at theCarlton in St.  Moritz, and that was inviolable.He thought about Peter, as he'd done so often in the last four years,and he felt the old guilt, felt his stomach tighten, then flip over.Guilt that he'd let his brother die alone, because in the last few yearsof Peter's life he'd barely even talked to him.But he knew Peter wasn't alone at the end.  He'd been living with aSwiss woman, a medical student he'd fallen in love with.  Peter had toldhim about it on the phone a couple of months before he was killed.Ben had seen Peter exactly twice since college.  Twice.As kids, before Max had sent them off to different prep schools, they'dbeen inseparable.  They fought constantly, they wrestled each otheruntil one could claim, You're good, but I'm better.  They hated eachother and loved each other, and they were never apart.But after college Peter had joined the Peace Corps and gone to Kenya. Hehad no interest in Hartman Capital Management either.  Nor would he takeanything out of his trust fund.  What the hell do I need it for inAfrica?  he'd said.The fact was that Peter wasn't just doing something meaningful with hislife.  He was escaping Dad.  Max and he had never gotten along."Christ!"  Ben had exploded at him once.  "You want to avoid Dad, youcan live in Manhattan and simply not call him.  Have lunch with Mom oncea week or something.  You don't need to live in some god damned mud hut,for God's sake!"But no.  Peter had returned to the States twice: once when their motherhad her mastectomy, and once after Ben had called to tell him that Mom'scancer had spread and she didn't have long to live.By that time Peter had moved to Switzerland.  He'd met a Swiss woman inKenya.  "She's beautiful, she's brilliant, and she still hasn't seenthrough me," Peter had told him over the phone.  "File that one under'strange but true."  " That was a favorite boyhood expression ofPeter's.The girl was returning to medical school and he was going with her toZurich.  Which was what had first got the two of them talking.  You'retagging along with some chick you met?  Ben had said scornfully.  He wasjealous--jealous that Peter had fallen in love, and jealous, on somecrazy brotherly level, that he'd been replaced at the center of Peter'slife.No, Peter had said, it wasn't just that.  He'd read an article in aninternational edition of Time magazine about an old woman, a Holocaustsurvivor, living in France, desperately poor, who'd tried withoutsuccess to get one of the big Swiss banks to give back the modest sumher father had left for her before he'd perished in the camps.The bank had demanded her father's death certificate.She'd told them that the Nazis hadn't issued death certificates for thesix million Jews they'd murdered.Peter was going to get the old woman what was due her.  Dammit, he said,if a Hartman can't wrest this lady's money from the greedy paws of someSwiss banker, who can?No one was as stubborn as Peter.  No one except Old Max, maybe.Ben had little doubt Peter had won the battle.He began to feel weary.  The highway had become monotonous, lulling. Hisdriving had fallen naturally into the rhythm of the road, and other carsno longer seemed to be trying to pass him quite so often.  His eyelidsbegan to droop.There came a blaring car horn, and he was dazzled by headlights.  With ajolt he realized that he'd momentarily fallen asleep behind the wheel.He reacted quickly, spinning the car to the right, swerving out of theoncoming lane of traffic, just barely missing a collision.He pulled over to the side of the road, his heart pounding.  He let outa long, relieved sigh.  It was the jet lag, his body still on New Yorktime, the length of the day, the madness at the Bahnhofplatz finallycatching up with him.It was time to get off the highway.  St.  Moritz was maybe a couple ofhours away, but he didn't dare risk driving any longer.  He had to finda place to spend the night.Two cars passed by, though Ben did not see them.One was a green Audi, battered and rusty, almost ten years old.  Itsdriver and sole occupant, a tall man of around fifty with long gray hairpulled back in a ponytail, turned to inspect Ben's car, parked on theside of the road.When the Audi had traveled about a hundred meters beyond Ben's car, it,too, pulled over to the shoulder.Then a second car passed Ben's Opel: a gray sedan with two men inside."Glaubst Du, er hat uns entdeckt?"  the driver asked the passenger inSwiss-German.  You think he's spotted us?"It's possible," the passenger replied.  "Why else would he havestopped?""He could be lost.  He is looking at a map.""That could be a ruse.  I'm going to pull over."The driver noticed the green Audi at the side of the road.  "Are weexpecting company?"  he asked.CHAPTER SIX.Halifax, Nova ScotiaThe next morning Anna and Sergeant Arsenault drove up to the housebelonging to Robert Mailhot's widow and rang the bell.The widow opened the front door a suspicious few inches and stared outat them from the dark of her front hall.  She was a small woman ofseventy-nine with snow-white hair in a neat bouffant, a large, roundhead, an open face but wary brown eyes.  Her wide flat nose was red,evidence either of weeping or booze."Yes?"  She was, unsurprisingly, hostile."Mrs.  Mailhot, I'm Ron Arsenault from the RCMP, and this is AnnaNavarro from the United States Department of Justice."  Arsenault spokewith a surprising tenderness.  "We wanted to ask you some questions.Could we come in?""Why?""We have some questions, that's all."The widow's small brown eyes shone fiercely.  "I'm not talking to anypolice.  My husband's dead.  Why don't you just leave me alone?"Anna sensed the desperation in the old woman's voice.  Her maiden name,according to the documents, was Marie LeBlanc, and she was just abouteight years younger than her husband.  She didn't have to talk withthem, though she probably didn't know that.  Everything now turned onthe dance of persuasion.Anna hated dealing with the families of murder victims.  Pestering themwith questions at such a terrible time, days or even hours after thedeath of a loved one, was unbearable."Mrs.  Mailhot," Arsenault said in an official voice, "we have reason tobelieve someone may have killed your husband."The widow stared at them for a moment.  "That's ridiculous," she said.The space between front door and jamb narrowed."You may be right," Anna said softly.  "But if anyone did anything tohim, we want to know about it."The widow hesitated.  After a moment, she scoffed, "He was old.  He hada bad heart.  Leave me alone."She felt sorry for the old woman, having to undergo interrogation atsuch a terrible time.  But the widow could kick them out any minute, andshe couldn't allow that to happen.  In a gentle voice she said, "Yourhusband could have lived longer than he did.  You two could have hadmore time together.  We think someone may have taken that away from you.Something no one had the right to take.  If anyone did that to you, wewant to find out who it was."The widow's stare seemed to relent."Without your help, we'll never know who took your husband from you."Slowly the space widened and the screen door came open.The front parlor was dark.  Mrs.  Mailhot switched on a lamp, which casta sulfurous light.  She was wide-hipped and even shorter than she hadfirst appeared to be.  She wore a neat gray pleated skirt and an ivoryfisherman's sweater.The room was gloomy but immaculate, and it smelled of lemon oil.Recently cleaned perhaps because Mrs.  Mailhot expected relatives at herhusband's funeral.  Hair and fiber would be a problem.  The "crimescene," such as it was, was not exactly preserved.The room, Anna noticed, was furnished with great attention to detail.Lace doilies adorned the arms of the tweedy sofa and armchairs.  All thewhite fringed silk lampshades matched.  On little end tablessilver-framed photographs were placed just so.  One of them was ablack-and-white wedding picture: a plain, vulnerable-looking bride, thegroom darkhaired, sharp-featured, proud.Atop the walnut television cabinet was a line of identical little ivoryelephant figurines.  Tacky, yet touching."Oh, aren't those exquisite," Anna said, pointing the elephants out toArsenault."Sure are," Arsenault said unconvincingly."Are they Lenox?"  Anna asked.The widow looked surprised, then gave a proud little smile.  "Youcollect them?""My mother did."  Her mother had neither the time nor the money tocollect anything except her meager paychecks.The old woman gestured.  "Please sit down."Anna took a seat on the couch, Arsenault in the adjoining armchair. Sheremembered this was the room in which Mailhot had been found dead.Mrs.  Mailhot sat in an uncomfortable-looking ladder-back chair all theway across the room.  "I wasn't here when my husband died," she saidsadly.  "I was visiting my sister like I do every Tuesday night.  I justfeel so terrible he died without me here."Anna nodded sympathetically.  "Maybe we can talk a little about the wayhe passed ...""He died from heart failure," she said.  "The doctor told me that.""And he may have," Anna said.  "But sometimes a person can be killed insuch a way that it doesn't look like murder.""Why would anyone want to kill Robert?"Arsenault gave Anna a quick, almost undetectable glance.  There wassomething about the woman's intonation: it wasn't a rhetorical question.She sounded as if she really wanted to know.  The approach they took nowwould be crucial.  The two had been married since 1951--half a centurytogether.  She surely had some inkling of whatever it was, if anything,that her husband might have been involved in."You two retired here a few years ago, is that right?""Yes," the old woman said.  "What does this have to do with his death?""You lived on your husband's pension?"Mrs.  Mailhot raised her chin defiantly.  "Robert took care of themoney.  He told me never to worry about those things.""But did he ever tell you where the money was coming from?""I told you, Robert took care of everything.""Did your husband tell you that he had one point five million dollars inthe bank?""We can show you the bank records if you'd like," Arsenault put in.The old widow's eyes betrayed nothing.  "I told you, I know very littleabout our finances.""He never talked to you about receiving money from anyone?"  Arsenaultasked."Mr.  Highsmith was a generous man," she said slowly.  "He never forgotthe little people.  The people who had helped him.""These were payments from Charles Highsmith?"  Arsenault prompted.Charles Highsmith was a famous, some would say notorious, media baron.With holdings even more extensive than his competitor ConradBlack's, he owned newspapers, radio stations, and cable companies acrossNorth America.  Three years ago, Highsmith had died, evidently havingfallen overboard from his yacht, although the precise circumstances ofthe incident remained a matter of some controversy.The widow nodded.  "My husband was in his employ for most of his life.""But Charles Highsmith died three years ago," Arsenault said."He must have left instructions for his estate.  My husband didn'texplain such things to me.  Mr.  Highsmith made sure we always hadenough.  That's the kind of man he was.""And what did your husband do to inspire such loyalty?"  Anna asked."There's no secret about that," the widow replied."Until he retired fifteen years ago, he worked for him as a bodyguard,"Arsenault said.  "And factotum.  Someone who did special errands.""He was a man Mr.  Highsmith could trust implicitly," the old womansaid, as if echoing an overheard accolade."You moved here from Toronto right after Charles Highsmith's death,"Anna said, glancing at her file."My husband ... had certain ideas.""About Highsmith's death?"The old woman spoke with obvious reluctance.  "Like many people, hewondered about it.  About whether it was an accident.  Of course, Robertwas retired by that point, but he still consulted on security. Sometimeshe blamed himself for what happened.  I think that's why he was a little... funny about it.  He convinced himself that if it wasn't an accident,then maybe Highsmith's enemies would come after him one day.  It soundscrazy.  But you understand, he was my husband.  I never questioned hisdecisions.""That's why you moved here," Anna said, half to herself.  After decadesin major cities like London and Toronto, her husband had rusticatedhimself had, in fact, gone into hiding.  He moved to the place hisancestors and hers had once made a home, a place where they knew all theneighbors, a place that seemed safe, where they could keep a lowprofile.Mrs.  Mailhot was silent.  "I never really believed it.  My husband hadhis suspicions, that was all.  As he aged, he became more anxious. Somemen are like that.""You thought it was an eccentricity of his.""We all have our eccentricities.""And what do you think now?"  Anna said gently."Now I don't know what to think."  The old woman's eyes grew moist."Do you know where he kept his financial records?""There are checkbooks and all that sort of thing in a box upstairs." Sheshrugged.  "You can look if you want.""Thank you," Anna said.  "We need to go through with you the last weekor so of your husband's life," Anna said.  "In detail.  His habits,where he went, any place he traveled.  Any calls he might have placed orreceived.  Any letters he got.  Any restaurants you went to.  Anyrepairmen or workers who might have come to the house plumbers,telephone repairmen, carpet cleaners, meter readers.  Anything you canthink of."They interviewed her for the next two hours, stopping only to use thetoilet.  Even when it was clear the widow was becoming weary, theyforged ahead, determined to push her as hard as she'd let them.  Annaknew that if they were to stop and ask to come back in the morning, shemight change her mind in the meantime about speaking to them.  She mightspeak to a friend, a lawyer.  She might tell them to go to hell.But two hours later they knew little more than when they began.  Thewidow gave them permission to inspect the house, but they found no signsof forced entry at the front door or any of the windows.  Likely thekiller if indeed the old man had been murdered got into the house bymeans of subterfuge, or was an acquaintance.Anna found an old Electrolux vacuum cleaner in a closet and removed thebag.  It was full, which meant it probably hadn't been changed sinceMailhot died.  Good.  She'd have the crime-scene people do a fresh-bagvacuum when they arrived.  Maybe there would be some trace evidenceafter all.Maybe they'd even turn up footprints, tire tracks.  She would orderelimination prints from the widow and anyone else who visited regularly,and have all the usual surfaces printed.When they returned to the front parlor, Anna waited for the widow to sitand then chose a chair near her.  "Mrs.  Mailhot," she began delicately,"did your husband ever tell you why he thought Charles Highsmith mighthave been the victim of foul play?"The widow looked at her a long time, as if deciding what to reveal. "Lesgrands hommes ont leurs ennemis," she said at last, ominously. "Greatmen have great enemies.""What do you mean by that?"Mrs.  Mailhot did not meet her gaze.  "It's just something my husbandused to say," she replied.SwitzerlandBen took the first exit he came to.The road went straight for a while, cutting through flat farmland, andthen, after crossing over a set of train tracks, it began to twistthrough hilly terrain.  Every twenty minutes or so, he'd pull over toconsult his road map.He was approaching Chur on the A3 highway, south of Bad Ragaz, when hebegan to focus on the dark blue Saab behind him.  He didn't have theroad to himself and he didn't expect to.  Perhaps the Saab was carryinganother lot of ski-happy vacationers.  But there was something about thecar, something about the way its pace seemed to synchronize with his.Ben pulled over to the side of the road, and the Saab drove right pasthim.  There--he had been imagining things.Now he resumed his drive.  He was being paranoid, and after what he'dbeen through, who could blame him?  He thought once more about JimmyCavanaugh, and then abruptly reeled his thoughts in: it filled him withvertigo, like staring into an abyss--a mystery piled upon a mystery. Forhis own sanity, he could not allow himself to dwell on it.  There wouldbe time to sort things out later.  Right now, he needed motion.Ten minutes later, images of carnage in the Shopville started to crowdhis mind once more, and he reached for the radio dial to distracthimself.  Speed would help, too, he figured, and he stepped on theaccelerator hard, felt the gears mesh smoothly and the car push fasterup the sloping highway.  He glanced at his rearview mirror and saw ablue Saab--the same blue Saab, he was certain.  And as he accelerated,the Saab accelerated, too.A knot formed in his stomach.  At higher speeds, drivers intuitivelyleave greater distances between themselves and the next car, but theSaab had maintained precisely the same distance behind him as before. Ifit had wanted to pass him, it would have turned into the passing lane,which meant that its passengers had something else in mind.  Ben peeredin the rearview again, tried to see through the other car's windshield, butit was hard to make out anything more than shadows.  He could see onlythat there were two people in the front.  What the hell were they up to?Now Ben fixed his attention on this road ahead of him.  He wasn't goingto let on that he was even aware of them.But he had to lose them.There would be plenty of opportunities in the tangle of roads aroundChur; God knows he'd gotten lost there himself the last time he'dvisited.  Now he made a last-minute hairpin turn, veered onto the exitto the narrower Highway Number 3 going south toward St.  Moritz.  A fewminutes later, the familiar blue Saab returned, perfectly centered inhis rearview mirror.  Driving too fast, Ben hurtled past Malix andChurwalden, making sharp ascents and sudden descents that made hisstomach plunge.  He turned onto poorly paved byways, taking them atspeeds they weren't meant for, and the combination of the rough surfacesand the Opel's over strained suspension system caused the car to shudderand jolt.  Once, he could hear the car's chassis scrape loudly against abulge in the pavement, and he saw sparks in the rearview mirror.Had he shaken his pursuers?  The Saab would disappear for longintervals, but never long enough.  Time and again, it reappeared, as iflinked to him by a strong invisible coil.  Ben sped through a series oftunnels cut into gorge faces, past limestone cliffs and old stonebridges spanning deep ravines.  He was driving recklessly, his mountingterror overcoming anything like caution; he had to count on hispursuer's prudence and sense of self-preservation.  That was his onlychance.As he headed toward the narrow mouth of a tunnel, the Saab suddenly shotahead of him and into the tunnel.  Ben was puzzled: Had it beenfollowing another car all along?  Only when Ben tried to emerge from theshort tunnel did he see, in the yellowish mercury lights, what washappening.Fifty feet ahead, the Saab was now parked laterally across the narrowroad, blocking the egress.Its driver, in a dark overcoat and hat, was holding up a hand, signalinghim to halt.  It was a barricade, a roadblock.Then Ben became aware that another car was following from the rear.  Agray Renault sedan.  A car he'd caught glimpses of before withoutfocusing on.  One of them, whoever they were.Think, dammit!  They were trying to wedge him in, trap him inside thetunnel.  Oh, Christ!  He couldn't allow that to happen!  Ordinarycaution told him to slam on the brakes before hitting the barrier ahead,but these weren't ordinary circumstances.  Instead, following some madimpulse, Ben barreled ahead, flooring the gas pedal, his Opel sedanramming into the left side of the stationary two-door Saab.  The Saabwas a sports car, built for speed, he knew, but it was probably eighthundred pounds lighter, too.  He saw the driver jump out of the way justbefore the collision propelled the Saab to one side.  The suddendeceleration caused Ben to lurch forward against his straining seat beltand shoulder strap, the taut fabric cutting into his flesh like bands ofsteel, but the impact had cleared just enough room for him to scrapethrough, with a horrifying scrape of metal against metal.  The car hewas driving its front end partly crumpled, viciously banged up no longerresembled the gleaming model he'd rented, but the wheels still turned,and he roared ahead down the road, not daring to look back.From behind him, he heard an explosion of gunfire.  Oh, dear Christ! Itwasn't over.  It would never be over!Galvanized by a fresh surge of adrenaline, Ben found his every sensegaining laser-like focus.  The old gray Renault, the one that had comeup from behind him in the tunnel, had somehow made its way through thewreckage, too.  In his rearview, Ben could see a weapon thrust throughthe passenger's side window, aiming at him.  It was a submachine gun,and, seconds later, it began firing off a nonstop fusillade of automaticfire.Move!Ben sped down an old stone bridge spanning a gorge so narrow there wasbarely room for traffic in either direction.  Suddenly there came ahollow pop, an explosion of glass a few feet away.  His rearview mirrorhad been shot out; bullets spider webbed the rear windshield.  They knewexactly what they were doing, and soon he would be dead.There was a muted explosion, like a dull popping noise, and the carsuddenly lurched to the left: one of his tires had blown out.They were firing at his tires.  Trying to disable him.  Ben rememberedthe security expert who'd lectured the senior executives at HartmanCapital Management about kidnapping risks in third-world countries,drilling them on a list of recommended countermeasures.  They seemedlaughably inadequate to the reality, then as now.  Don't get out of thecar was one of the pointers, he remembered.  It wasn't clear he wasgoing to have much of a choice.Just then, he heard the unmistakable wail of a police siren.  Through ajagged hole in the opaque rear windshield, he saw that a third vehiclewas coming up fast from behind the gray sedan, this one a civilianunmarked car with a flashing blue light on its roof.  That was all hecould see: it was too far away to make out the model.  Confusion filledBen's mind again, but abruptly the gunfire ceased.He watched as the gray sedan made a sudden 180-degree turn over theshoulder of the road, zooming back on the narrow embankment and takingoff past the police car.  The Renault, his pursuers inside, had gottenaway!Ben brought his car to a halt just after the stone bridge, lolling hishead back in his shock and exhaustion, waiting for the Polizei toarrive.  A minute went by, and then another.  He craned his neck back tothe lethal stretch of road.But the police car was gone now, too.  The crumpled Saab had beenabandoned.He was alone, the only sound the ticking of his car's engines, and thehammering of his own heart.  He pulled his Nokia from his pocket,remembered his conversation with Schmid, and made a decision.  They canlock you up for twenty-four hours without any cause, Howie had told him.Schmid had made it clear that he was looking for an excuse to do justthat.  He would put off calling the Polizei.  He couldn't think straightanymore.As the adrenaline ebbed, panic gave way to a sense of profounddepletion.  He badly needed to rest.  He needed to refuel, to takestock.He drove his ruined Opel, the engine straining, the shredded tiresmaking for a bone-jarring ride, a few miles up a hilly road to thenearest town, although really it was a village, a Dorf.  Its narrowstreets were lined with ancient stone buildings, progressing from tinydilapidated structures to larger, half-timbered houses.  A few lightswere on, but most of the windows were dark.  The street was unevenlypaved, and the car's undercarriage, now low to the ground, regularlybumped and scraped against the cobblestone.The narrow road became a main street soon enough, lined now with greatgabled stone houses and rows of slate-shingled buildings.  Now he cameto a large cobblestoned square, marked rathausplatz, dominated by anancient Gothic cathedral.  At the center of the square was a stonefountain.  He appeared to be in a seventeenth-century village built uponmuch older ruins, its buildings a peculiar hodgepodge of architecturalstyles.Across the town square from the cathedral was a seventeenth-centurymanor house with crow-stepped gables, marked with a small wooden signidentifying it as the Altes Gebaude, the Old Building, though it lookednewer than most of the other buildings in town.  Lights blazed from itssmall-mullioned windows.  It was a tavern, a place to get food anddrink, to sit and rest and think.  He parked his wreck alongside an oldfarm truck, where it would be largely concealed from view, and went in,his trembling, twitching legs barely supporting his weight.Inside, the place was warm and cozy, lit by a flickering fire in animmense stone hearth.  It smelled of wood smoke and fried onions androasted meats, wonderful and inviting.  It looked like a traditionalSwiss Stoblt, an old-style restaurant.  One round wooden table wasobviously the Starmtisch, the place reserved for the regulars who camein every day to drink beer and play cards for hours.  Five or six men,mostly farmers or laborers, regarded him with hostile suspicion, thenwent back to their cards.  Sprinkled throughout the room were othershaving dinner or drinking.Ben realized only now how famished he was.  He looked around for awaiter or waitress, saw none, and sat down at an empty table.  When awaiter arrived, a small round man of early middle age, Ben orderedsomething typically Swiss, heavy and reliable: Rosti, roasted potatoes,with Geschnetzeltes, or bits of veal in cream sauce, with a Vierterl, aquarter liter carafe of local red wine.  When the waiter returned tenminutes later, balancing several plates on his arm, Ben asked inEnglish: "Where's a good place to spend the night?"The waiter frowned and set down the dinner plates in silence.  He movedaside the glass ashtray and the red Altes Gebaude matchbook, poured thedeep red wine into a stemmed glass.  "The Langasthof," he said, in aheavy Romansch accent.  "It's the only place for twenty kilometersaround."While the waiter gave him directions, Ben tucked into his Rosti.  Theywere brown and crisp, onion-rangy, delicious.  He continued wolfing downhis dinner, glancing through the partly fogged window at the smallparking area outside.  Another car was parked alongside his, obstructinghis view.  A green Audi.Something twanged at the back of his mind.Wasn't a green Audi behind him for a good stretch of A3 out of Zurich?He remembered having seen one, worrying whether he was being followed,dismissing it as a figment of an overactive imagination.Turning his gaze, he thought he saw, in his peripheral vision, someonestaring at him.  Yet when his eyes swept the room, there was no onegiving him so much as a casual glance.  Ben set down his wineglass. WhatI need is some black coffee, he thought, not more wine.  I'm starting tosee things that aren't there.Most of his dinner was gone, downed in record time.  Now it sat heavilyin his stomach, a leaden mass of greasy potatoes and cream sauce.  Helooked around for the waiter to order a strong coffee.  Once again hegot that creepy sensation of someone looking over at him, then lookingaway.  He turned to his left, where most of the scarred wooden tableswere empty, but a few people sat in dark booths, deep in shadow, next toa long, ornately carved wooden bar that was dark and unoccupied, theonly object on its surface an old-fashioned white rotary-dial telephone.One man was sitting alone in a booth, drinking coffee and smoking, amiddle-aged man in a worn brown leather bomber jacket with long grayinghair pulled back into a ponytail.  I've seen him before, Ben thought.  /know I've seen him before.  But where?  Now the man casually brought anelbow to the table, leaned forward, and rested his head on theoutstretched palm, the hand cradling the side of his face.The gesture was too studied.  The man was trying to hide his face,trying too hard to be casual about it.Ben remembered a tall man in a business suit, sallow complexion, longgray hair worn in a ponytail.  But from where?  He had caught a quickglance of such a man, thinking in passing how ridiculous, how dated, aponytail looked on a businessman.  How... eighties.The Bahnhofstrasse.Ponytail man had been among the crowd milling around the pedestrianshopping district just before he spotted Jimmy Cavanaugh.  Now he wascertain of it.  The man had been in the vicinity of the Hotel St.Gotthard; later, he'd followed Ben in a green Audi; now he was here,looking decidedly out of place.Dear Christ, he's tailing me, too, Ben thought.  Since this afternoon,he's been watching me.  He felt his stomach tighten.Who was he, and why was he here?  If, like Jimmy Cavanaugh, he wanted tokill Ben--for whatever reason Cavanaugh had tried--why hadn't he done soalready?  There had been plenty of opportunities. Cavanaugh had pulledout a gun in broad daylight right on the Bahnhofstrasse.  Why wouldPonytail hesitate to fire at him in a mostly empty tavern?He signaled the waiter, who bustled over with a questioning look, "CouldI have a coffee?"  Ben asked."Certainly, sir.""And where's your rest room, your WE?"The waiter pointed toward a dimly lit corner of the room, where a smallcorridor was barely visible.  Ben pointed in that direction too,confirming the rest room's location in as broad a gesture as possible.So Ponytail could see where he was going.Ben slipped some money under his plate, pocketed one of the restaurant'smatchbooks, got up slowly, and made his way toward the rest room.  Itwas located just off the small corridor, on the other side of the diningroom from the kitchen.  Restaurant kitchens usually had serviceentrances from the outdoors, Ben knew, so they made good escape routes.And he didn't want Ponytail thinking he was trying to leave therestaurant through the kitchen.  This rest room was small andwindowless; he couldn't leave this way.  Ponytail, presumably some sortof professional, would likely have already checked out the means ofegress.He locked the rest room door.  There was an ancient toilet and equallyancient marble sink basin, and it smelled pleasantly of cleaning liquid.He pulled out his digital phone and dialed the telephone number of theAltes Gebaude.  Ben could hear the faint sound of a telephone ringingsomewhere in the restaurant.  Probably the old rotary-dial phone he'dseen on the bar near Ponytail's booth, or one in the kitchen, if therewas one there.  Or both.A man's voice answered, "Altes Gebaude, gut en Abend."  Ben was fairlysure it was the waiter.Making his voice deep and gravelly, Ben said, "I need to speak to one ofyour customers, please.  Someone who's having dinner there tonight. It'surgent.""}a?  Who is that?""Someone you probably don't know.  Not a regular.  It's a gentleman withlong gray hair in a ponytail.  He's probably wearing a leather jacket,he always does.""Ah, yes, I think I know what you mean.  A man of about fifty years?""Yes, that's the one.  Can you please ask him to come to the phone.  AsI said, it's urgent.  An emergency.""Yes, at once, sir," the waiter said, responding to the tension Ben hadput in his voice.  He set the phone down.Leaving the line open, Ben slipped his phone into the breast pocket ofhis sport coat, left the rest room, and returned to the dining room.Ponytail was no longer sitting at his booth.  The telephone was at thebar, which was situated in such a way that it couldn't be seen from theentrance to the restaurant--Ben hadn't seen it until he was seated athis table--and no one standing or sitting at it could see either theentrance or the area of the restaurant roughly between the rest room andthe entrance.  Ben moved quickly to the entrance and out the door. Hehad bought himself maybe fifteen seconds during which he could leave,unseen by Ponytail, who was at the moment talking into the telephone'shandset, hearing nothing but silence, wondering what had happened to thecaller who had identified him so carefully.Ben grabbed his bags from the ruined sedan and raced to the green Audi;a key was in the ignition, as if the driver had made preparations for arapid getaway.  Theft was probably unknown in this sleepy village, butthere had to be a first time.  Besides, Ben had a strong suspicion thatPonytail wasn't in a position to notify the police about his vehicle'sdisappearance.  This way, he gained a working vehicle while deprivinghis pursuer of one.  Ben leaped in and started it up.  There was nosense in trying to be quiet now; Ponytail would hear the ignition of theengine.  He threw the car into reverse, then, with a squeal of rubber,barreled over the cobblestoned expanse and, at top speed, out of theRathausplatz.Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up near a half-timbered stone buildingin a remote, wooded area off the small country road.  A small sign infront read langasthof.He tucked the car away discreetly behind a dense stand of pine trees andwalked back to the front door of the guest house, where a small signsaid empfang, reception.He rang the bell, and waited a few minutes before a light came on.  Itwas midnight, and obviously he had awakened the proprietor.An old man with a deeply lined face opened the door and, with a put uponair, led Ben down a long, dark hall, switching on little wall sconcelights as he went, until he came to an oak-plank doorway marked 7. Withan old skeleton key, he unlocked the door and switched on a small bulb,illuminating a snug room dominated by a double bed on which a whiteduvet was neatly folded.  The diamond-patterned wallpaper was peeling."This is all we have," the proprietor said gruffly."It'll do.""I'll put the heat on.  It will take a good ten minutes."A few minutes later, after he'd unpacked only what he needed for thenight, Ben went into the bathroom to run the shower.  The setup lookedso alien, so complicated four or five knobs and dials, a telephone-stylehand-shower hanging on a hook that Ben decided it wasn't worth it.  Hesplashed cold water on his face, unwilling to wait for hot water to findits way through the pipes, brushed his teeth, and undressed.The duvet was luxurious and lofty with goose down.  He fell asleepalmost immediately.Some time later hours, it seemed, though he couldn't be sure, since histravel alarm clock was still in his suitcase he heard a noise.He sat upright, his heart racing.He heard it again.  It was a soft but audible squeak, floorboardsbeneath the carpet.  It came from near the doorway.He reached over to the end table and grabbed the brass lamp at its base.With the other hand, he slowly yanked the cord out of its wall socket,freeing the lamp to be swung.He swallowed hard.  His heart hammered.  He quietly swung his feet freeof the duvet an dover to the floor.He lifted the lamp slowly, careful not to disturb anything else on theend table.  When he had a good grip on it, he quietly, quietly, hoistedit up above his head.And sprang suddenly off the bed.A powerful arm reached out, grabbed at the lamp, wrenched it from hishands.  Ben lunged toward the dark shape, turned his shoulder, andjammed it into the intruder's chest.But in the same instant a foot swung out, catching Ben at the ankles,knocking him down.  With all his strength, Ben tried to rear up andpummel his attacker with his elbows, but a knee rammed into his chestand his solar plexus, and the wind was knocked out of him.  Before hehad the chance to attempt another move, the intruder's hands shotforward, slamming Ben's shoulders down, pinning him to the floor.  Assoon as his breath came back, Ben let out a great bellow, but then alarge hand clapped his mouth shut and Ben found himself looking into thehaunted face of his brother."You're good," Peter said, "but I'm still better."CHAPTER SEVEN.Asuncion, ParaguayThe rich Corsican was dying.He had been dying for three or four years, however, and probably had agood two years or more left in him.He lived in a grand Spanish Mission-style villa in a wealthy suburb ofAsuncion, at the end of a long drive lined with palm trees, surroundedby acres of beautifully landscaped property.Senor Prosperi's bedroom was on the second floor, and though it wasflooded with light, it was so choked with medical equipment that itlooked like an emergency room.  His much younger wife, Consuela, hadslept in her own bedroom for years.When he opened his eyes this morning, he did not recognize the nurse."You're not the regular girl," he said, his voice a phlegm-laden croak."Your regular nurse is ill this morning," said the pleasant-lookingblond young woman.  She was standing at the side of his bed, doingsomething to his IV drip."Who sent you?"  Marcel Prosperi demanded."The nursing agency," she replied.  "Please calm down.  It will do youno good to be upset."  She turned the valve on the drip fully open."You people are always pumping me full of things," Senor Prosperigrumbled, but this was all he was able to get out before his eyes closedand he lost consciousness.A few minutes later the substitute nurse checked his pulse at the wristand found there was none.  Casually she turned the IV valve back to itsusual setting.Then, her face suddenly contorted by grief, she ran to break theterrible news to the old man's widow.Ben sat up on the carpeted floor, felt the blood drain from his head,then fell forward onto his knees.He was overcome by vertigo, felt as if his head were spinning while hisbody was frozen, as if his head were disconnected from his body.He was overcome by memories, of the funeral, of the burial ceremony atthe small cemetery in Bedford.  Of the rabbi chanting the Kaddish, theprayer for the dead: Yisgadal v'yiskadash shmay rabbo ... Of the smallwooden casket that held the remains, his father's composure suddenlycracking as the casket was lowered into the hole, crumpling to theground, fists clenched, his hoarse wail.Ben squeezed his eyes shut.  The memories kept flooding his overloadedmind.  The call in the middle of the night.  Driving out to WestchesterCounty to break the news to his parents.  He couldn't do it over thephone.  Mom, Dad, I have some bad news about Peter.  A beat of silence;do I really have to go through this, what else is there to say?  Hisfather had been asleep in the immense bed, of course: it was fouro'clock in the morning, an hour or so before the old man normally awoke.His mother in her mechanized hospital bed in the adjoining room, thenight nurse dozing on the couch.Mom first.  It seemed the right thing.  Her love for her boys wasuncomplicated, unconditional.She whispered simply, "What is it?"  and stared at Ben uncomprehending.She seemed to have been yanked from deep in a dream: disoriented, stillhalf in the dream world.  / just got a call from Switzerland, Mom, andBen, kneeling, put a gentle hand on her soft cheek as if to cushion theblow.Her long hoarse scream awakened Max, who lurched in, one handoutstretched.  Ben wanted to hug him, but Dad had never encouraged suchintimacy.  His father's breath was fetid.  His few strands of gray hairwere matted, in wild disarray.  There's been an accident Peter... Attimes like these we speak in cliches and mind it not a bit.  Cliches arecomforting; they're well-worn grooves through which we can move easily,unthinkingly.Max had at first reacted not at all as Ben had expected: the old man'sexpression was stern, his eyes flashed with anger, not grief; his mouthcame open in an O. Then he shook his head slowly, closing his eyes, andtears coursed down his pale lined cheeks as he shook his head and thencollapsed to the floor.  Now he seemed vulnerable, small, defenseless.Not the powerful, formidable man in the perfectly tailored suits, alwayscomposed, always in control.Max didn't go to comfort his wife.  The two wept separately, islands ofgrief.Now, like his father at the funeral, Ben squeezed his eyes shut, felthis extremities give out, unequal to the task of supporting him.  Hetoppled forward, hands outstretched, touching his brother as he crumpledinto his arms, feeling him to see if this phantasm were real.Peter said, "Hey, bro'.""Oh, my God," Ben whispered.  "Oh, my God."It was like seeing a ghost.Ben took in a deep gulp of air, embraced his brother, and hugged himhard.  "You bastard ... You bastard!...""Is that the best you can do?"  Peter asked.Ben released the hold.  "What the hell "But Peter's face was stern.  "You have to get out of here.  Get out ofthe country as fast as you can.  Immediately."Ben realized that his eyes were flooded with tears, which blurred hisvision.  "You bastard," he said."You have to get out of Switzerland.  They tried to get me.  Now they'reafter you, too.""What the hell... ?"  Ben repeated dully.  "How could you ... ?  Whatkind of twisted, sick joke?  Mom died ... she didn't want to... Youkilled her."  Anger surged into his body, his veins and arteries,flushing his face.  The two of them sat on the carpeted floor, staringat each other: an unconscious reenactment of their infancy, theirtoddler days, when they'd sit facing each other for hours, babbling intheir invented language, the secret code no one else could understand."What the hell was the idea!""You don't sound happy to see me, Benno," Peter said.Peter was the only one who called him Benno.  Ben rose to his feet, andPeter did the same.It was always strange, looking into his twin brother's face: all he eversaw were the differences.  How one of Peter's eyes was slightly largerthan the other.  The eyebrows that arched differently.  The mouth widerthan his, downwardly curved.  The overall expression more serious, moredour.  To Ben, Peter looked completely different.  To anyone else thedifferences were microscopic.He was almost bowled over by the sudden realization of how much he'dmissed Peter, what a gaping wound his brother's absence had been.He couldn't help thinking of Peter's absence as a form of bodilyviolence, a maiming.For years, for all of their childhood, they had been adversaries,competitors, antagonists.  Their father had brought them up that way.Max, fearing that wealth would make his boys soft, had sent them to justabout every "character-building" wilderness school and camp therewas--the survival course where you had to subsist for three days onwater and grass; camps for rock-climbing and canoeing and kayaking.Whether Max intended to or not he pushed his two sons to compete againsteach other.Only when the two were separated during high school did thecompetitiveness wane.  The distance from each other, and from theirparents, finally allowed the boys to break free of the struggle.Peter said, "Let's get out of here.  If you checked into this placeunder your own name, we're screwed."Peter's pickup truck, a rusty Toyota, was caked with mud.  The cabin waslittered with trash, the seats stained and smelling of dog.  It washidden in a copse a hundred feet or so from the inn.Ben told him about the horrific pursuit on the roadways near Chur. "Butthat's not all," he went on.  "I think I was followed most of the wayhere by another guy.  All the way from Zurich.""A guy driving an Audi?"  Peter asked, gunning the old Toyota'sarthritic engine as he pulled onto the dark country road."Right.""Fiftyish, long hair sort of tied back, kind of an old hippie?""That's the one.""That's Dieter, my spotter.  My antenna."  He turned to Ben, smiled."And my brother-in-law, sort of.""Huh?""Liesl's older brother and protector.  Only recently has he decided I'mgood enough for his sister.""Some surveillance expert.  I picked up on him.  Stole his car, too. AndI'm an amateur."Peter shrugged.  He looked over his shoulder as he drove.  "Don'tunderestimate Dieter.  He did thirteen years in Swiss armycounterintelligence in Geneva.  And he wasn't trying to stay out of yoursight.  He was doing countersurveillance.  It was just a precaution,once we'd learned that you'd arrived in the country.  His job was to seeif anyone was following you.  To watch you, follow you, make sure youweren't killed or abducted.  It wasn't a police car that saved your asson Highway Number 3. Dieter put on the cop siren to fake them out.  Itwas the only way.  We're dealing with highly skilled professionals."Ben sighed.  " "Highly skilled professionals."  "They're after you.""They."  Who's they?  Jesus!""Let's just say the Corporation."  Peter was looking in the rearviewmirror.  "Who the hell knows who they really are."Ben shook his head.  "And I thought / I was imagining things.  You're outof your god damned mind."  He felt his face flush with anger.  "Youbastard, that accident... I always thought there was something fishyabout it."When Peter spoke after a moment, he seemed distracted, his wordsdisjointed.  "I was afraid you'd come to Switzerland.  I've always hadto be so careful.  I think they were never really convinced I was dead.""Will you please tell me what the hell is going on?"  Ben exploded.Peter looked straight ahead at the road.  "I know it was a terriblething to do, but I had no choice.""Dad's never been the same since, you bastard, and Mom ..."Peter drove for a moment in silence.  "I know about Mom.  Don't..." Hisvoice turned steely.  "I really don't give a damn what happens to Max."Surprised, Ben looked at his brother's face.  "Well, you proved that,all right.""It's you and Mom I felt... sick about.  What I knew it would do to youtwo.  You have no idea how much I wanted to contact you, tell you thetruth.  Tell you I was alive.""Now do you want to tell me why?""I was trying to protect you, Benno.  I would never have done itotherwise.  If I thought they'd just kill me and that would be the endof it, I'd have gladly let them do it.  But I knew they'd go after myfamily, too.  Meaning you and Mom.  Dad--as far as I'm concerned, Daddied to me four years ago."Ben was at once thrilled to see Peter and furious at the deception, andhe was finding it hard to think logically.  "What are you talking about?Will you tell me a straight story already?"Peter glanced over at what looked like a lodge set back from the road, ahalogen light flooding its front entrance."What is it, five in the morning?  But it looks like maybe someone'sawake here."  A light was on above the inn's front door.He pulled the truck into a hidden clearing in the trees near the aubergeand shut off the engine.  The two men got out.  The predawn morning wascold and quiet, with just the faint rustle of a small animal or birdfrom the woods behind the inn.  Peter opened the front door, and theyentered a small lobby.  A reception desk was lit by a flickeringfluorescent light, but no one was there.  "The light's on, but nobody'shome," Peter said.  Ben smiled in appreciation: that was one of theirfather's favorite insults.  He reached out to tap the small metal bellon the counter, but stopped when a door behind the counter opened, and arotund woman emerged, cinching a bathrobe around her belly.  She wasscowling, blinking in the light, angry at being awakened, "/a?"Peter spoke quickly, fluidly in German.  "Es tut mir sehr leid She zu storen aber wir hdtten gerne Kaffee."  He was sorry to disturb her, butthey wanted some coffee."Kaffee?"  the old woman scowled.  "She ha ben which geweckt, well SheKaffee wollen?"  They'd woken her because they wanted coffee?"Wir werden She fur ihre Bemuhungen bezahlen, Mudame.  Zwei Kaffeebitte.  Wir werden uns einfach da, in Ihrem Esszimmer, hinsetzen." Theywould pay her for her trouble, Peter assured her.  Two coffees. They'dsimply like to sit in her dining room.The disgruntled innkeeper shook her head as she hobbled over to a nooknext to a small dark dining room, switched on the lights, and turned ona large red metal coffeemaker.The dining room was small but comfortable.  Several large curtainlesswindows, which in the daytime probably gave diners a beautiful view ofthe forest in which the auberge was nestled, were utterly black.  Fiveor six round tables were covered with starched white tablecloths andalready set for breakfast, with juice glasses and coffee cups and metaltrays heaped with brown sugar cubes.  Peter sat down at a table for twoagainst the wall, near the window.  Ben sat across from him.  Theinnkeeper, foaming a pitcher of milk in her nook, was staring at the twoof them, as people so often stared at identical twins.Peter moved aside the plate and the silverware to make room for hiselbows.  "You remember when that whole thing erupted over the Swissbanks and Nazi gold?""I sure do."  So that's what this was about."That was just before I moved here from Africa.  I followed it prettyclosely in the newspapers there I guess I was particularly interestedbecause of Dad's time in Dachau."  There was a sardonic twist to hismouth now.  "Anyway, a whole cottage industry suddenly sprang up.Lawyers and other shysters who got the bright idea to take advantage ofelderly Holocaust survivors who were trying to track down theirfamilies' missing assets.  I think I told you I read somewhere about anold woman in France, a survivor of the concentration camps.  Turned outshe'd been bilked of her entire life's savings by some French scumbaglawyer who said he had information about a dormant Swiss bank accountbelonging to her father.  The lawyer needed money, though, up front, todo the investigative work, take on the Swiss bank, all that bullshit. Ofcourse the old lady paid an amount like twenty-five thousand dollars,her entire savings, money she needed to live on.  The lawyer vanished,along with the twenty-five thousand.  That got me worked up I couldn'tstand hearing about a defenseless old lady being taken advantage of thatway and I contacted her, offered to look for her father's Swiss accountfor free.  She was understandably suspicious, having just been rippedoff, but after we talked awhile she gave me permission to go ahead andlook.  I had to convince her I had no interest in her money."Peter, who had been staring at the tablecloth as he spoke, now looked updirectly at Ben.  "Understand, these survivors weren't motivated bygreed.  They were seeking closure, justice, a connection to their deadparents, to the past.  Money to get by on."  He turned to glance at oneof the windows.  "Even as a legal representative of the old lady, I hadall kinds of trouble dealing with the Swiss bank.  They said they had norecords of any such account.  The usual story.  These god damned Swissbankers it's amazing, they're such anal-retentive record keepers, theykeep every damned scrap of paper since time began, but now they'resaying, Oops, they happened to lose a bank account.  Uh huh, right. Butthen I heard about this security guard at the bank where the lady'sfather opened his account.  The guard had gotten fired because hestumbled onto a shredding party bank employees destroying heaps ofdocuments from the forties in the middle of the night and he rescued apile of documents and ledgers from the shredder.""I vaguely remember that," Ben said.  The innkeeper came over with atray and sullenly set down a metal pitcher of espresso and another oneof steamed milk, then left the dining room."The Swiss authorities didn't like that.  Violation of bank privacy, allkinds of sanctimonious bullshit.  Never mind the shredding of documents.I tracked the guy down, outside of Geneva.  He'd kept all the documents,even though the bank was trying to get them back, and he let me gothrough them to see if there was any record of the father's account.""And?"  Ben was tracing patterns on the white tablecloth with the tinesof a fork."And nothing.  I didn't find anything on it.  Never did, by the way. Butin one of the ledgers I found a piece of paper.  Pretty eye-opening.  Itwas a fully executed, legally valid, notarized and certifiedGriindungsvertrag-articles of incorporation."Ben said nothing."In the waning years of the Second World War, some sort of corporationwas established.""Some sort of Nazi thing?""No.  There were a few Nazis involved in it, but the majority of theprincipals weren't even German.  We're talking about a board comprisingsome of the most powerful industrialists of the era.  We're talkingItaly, France, Germany, England, Spain, the U.S."  Canada.  Names you'veheard of, even you, Benno.  Some of the real big shots of worldcapitalism."Ben tried to concentrate.  "You said before the end of the war, right?""That's right.  Early in 1945.""German industrialists were founders of this corporation as well?"Peter nodded.  "It was a business partnership that cut clear acrossenemy lines.  Does that surprise you?""But we were at war ...""What do you mean 'we," Kemosabe?  The business of America is business,didn't anybody tell you?"  Peter leaned back, his eyes bright.  "I mean,let's just talk about what's on the public record.  You had Standard Oilof New Jersey basically carving up the map with I. G. Farben, figuringout who'd get which oil and chemical monopolies, doing patent sharing,the whole thing.  For God's sake, the entire war effort ran on juicefrom Standard Oil--it wasn't as if anyone in the military could affordto interfere.  What if the company started having 'production problems'?Besides, John Foster Dulles himself had been a board member of Farben.Then there's the Ford Motor Company.  All those five-ton military trucksthat were the mainstay of German military transportation?  Ford builtthose.  The Hollerith machines that enabled Hitler to round up'undesirables 1 with such incredible efficiency?  All manufactured andserviced by Big Blue, good of' IBM--hats off to Tom Watson.  Oh, thenthere's ITT-- a big stakeholder in Focke-Wulf, the company that mademost of the German bombers.  Want to hear something sweet?  After thewar was over, it sued the U.S. government for monetary compensation,given that Allied bombers had damaged those Focke-Wulf factories.  Icould go on and on.  But that's just the stuff we know about, obviouslya tiny fraction of what really went on.  None of these characters gave adamn about Hitler.  They owed their allegiance to a higher ideology:profit.  To them, the war was like a Harvard-Yale football game--amomentary distraction from more serious matters, like the pursuit of thealmighty dollar."Ben shook his head slowly.  "Sorry, bro'.  Just listen to yourself.  Itall sounds like the usual counterculture rap: property is theft, nevertrust anyone over thirty--all that overheated, dated conspiracy crap.Next you're going to tell me they were responsible for Love Canal."  Heset his cup of coffee down sharply, and it clanked loudly against thesaucer.  "Funny, there was a time when anything having to do withbusiness bored you stiff.  I guess you really have changed.""I don't expect you to take it in all at once," Peter said.  "I'm justgiving you the background.  Context.""Then tell me something real.  Something concrete.""There were twenty-three names on this list," his brother said, suddenlyquiet.  "For the most part, captains of industry, as they used to becalled.  A few blue-blooded statesmen, back when people thought therewas such a thing.  We're talking about people who shouldn't even haveknown each other--people any historian would swear never even met. Andhere they are, all linked together in some sort of businesspartnership.""There's a step missing," Ben said, half to himself.  "Obviouslysomething drew your attention to this document.  Something made you pullit out.  What are you leaving out?"Peter smiled mordantly, and the haunted look returned.  "A name jumpedout at me, Ben.  The name of the treasurer."Ben's scalp began to prickle, as if ants were swarming over it.  "Whowas it?""The treasurer of the corporation was a young financial whiz kid.  AnObersturtnfuhrer in Hitler's SS, to boot.  You may be familiar with thename: Max Hartman.""Dad."  Ben had to remember to breathe."He was no Holocaust survivor, Ben.  Our father was a god damned Nazi."CHAPTER EIGHT.Ben closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and shook his head.  "That'spreposterous.  Jews weren't members of the SS.  The document's obviouslya forgery.""Believe me," Peter said quietly.  "I've had plenty of time to studythis document.  It's no forgery.""But then ...""In April of 1945, our father was supposedly in Dachau, remember?Liberated by the U.S. Seventh Army at the end of April "45?""I don't remember the exact timing--is that right?""You were never very curious about Dad's background, were you?""Not really, no," Ben admitted.Peter smiled grimly.  "That's probably the way he preferred it.  Andlucky for you that you weren't.  It's nice to live in a state ofinnocence.  Believing all the lies.  The story, the legend Dad createdabout the Holocaust survivor who came to America with ten bucks in hispocket and built a financial empire.  Became a great philanthropist." Heshook his head, snorted.  "What a fraud he is.  What a myth he created."With a sneer he added: "The great man."Ben's heart began to pound slowly.  Dad was difficult to get along with;his enemies called him ruthless.  But a fraud?"Max Hartman was a member of the Schutzstaffel" Peter repeated.  "TheSS, okay?  File it under 'strange but true."  " Peter was so damnedearnest, so convincing, and Ben never knew him to lie to his face.  Butthis was so patently false!  He wanted to scream, Stop it!"What kind of corporation was it?"Peter shook his head.  "Possibly a front, a sort of dummy corporation,established with millions and millions of dollars in assets pooled bythe principals.""For what?  To what end?""That I don't know, and the document doesn't specify.""Where is this document?""I've got it hidden away safely, don't worry.  This corporation,headquartered in Zurich, Switzerland, in early April 1945, was calledSigma AG.""And did you tell Dad you'd found this?"Peter nodded and took his first sip of coffee.  "I called him, read italoud to him, asked him about it.  He blew up, as I knew he would.Claimed the thing was a fake, like you did as I knew he would.  Gotangry, defensive.  Started shouting, screaming.  How could I believesuch slander?  With all he'd been through, blah blah blah, how could Ipossibly believe such a lie?  That sort of thing.  I never expected toget anything out of him, but I wanted to gauge his reaction.  So Istarted asking around.  Looking into corporate records in Geneva, inZurich.  Trying to find out whatever happened to this firm.  And then Iwas almost killed.  Twice.  The first time it was a 'car accident," anear miss.  A car swerving onto the pavement on the Limmatquai, where Iwas walking.  The second time it was a 'mugging' on Niederdorfstrassethat was no mugging.  I managed to escape both times, but then I waswarned.  If I persisted in digging around in things that were none of mybusiness, next time I'd be killed.  No more near misses.  I was to handover all pertinent documents.  And if any of the details about thiscorporation got out, I'd be dead, along with everyone in our family. Sodon't think about phoning in a tip to the newspapers, they said. Dad Ididn't care about, obviously.  It was you and Mom I was protecting."That sounded so much like Peter he was no less fierce a protector oftheir mother than Ben had been.  And he was levelheaded, not at allprone to paranoia.  He had to be telling the truth."But why were they so concerned about what you knew?"  Ben persisted."Look at it objectively.  A corporation was set up more than half acentury ago.  So what?  Why the secrecy now?""We're talking about a joint partnership across enemy lines.  We'retalking about the risk of public exposure, and thus public disgrace, ofsome of the most powerful, revered figures of our time.  But that's theleast of it.  Consider the nature of the enterprise.  Mammothcorporations, Allied and Axis alike, establishing a joint entity inorder to enrich all of them.  Germany was blockaded at the time, butthen, capital doesn't respect national boundaries, does it?  Some peoplewould call it trading with the enemy.  Who knows what international lawsmight have been violated?  What if there was some chance that the assetscould be frozen or confiscated?  There's no way of gauging the magnitudeof those assets.  A lot can happen in half a century.  We could betalking about staggering sums of money.  And even the Swiss have beenknown to waive the secrecy laws under international pressure. Obviously,some people came to the conclusion that I might just know enough tojeopardize their cozy arrangement."" "Some people'?  Who was it who threatened you?"Peter sighed.  "Again, I wish I knew.""Come on, Peter, if there's anyone else alive who was involved insetting up this corporation, they'd have to be ancient.""Sure, most of the ones who were in high positions are gone.  But someare still around, believe me.  And some aren't all that old in theirseventies, even.  If only two or three guys on the board of this companyare still alive, they may be sitting on a fortune.  And who knows whotheir successors might be?  It's obvious they've got enough money tokeep their secret buried, you know?  By any means necessary.""So you decided to disappear.""They knew way too much about me.  My daily schedule, the places I went,my unlisted home phone number, names and locations of family members.Financial, credit information.  They were making a point, loud andclear, that they had extensive resources.  So I made a decision, Benno.I had to die.  They'd left me no other choice.""No other choice?  You could have given them their stupid document,agreed to their demands moved on as if you'd never found the thing."Peter grunted.  "That's like trying to unring a bell, put the toothpasteback in the tube can't be done.  They were never going to let me live,now that I knew what I knew.""So what was the purpose of the warning?""Keep me quiet while they determined how much I knew, whether I'd toldanyone.  Until they got rid of me."Ben could hear the old woman moving about in the other room, thefloorboards squeaking.  After a while, he said, "How'd you do it, Peter?The death, I mean.  It can't have been easy.""It wasn't."  Peter leaned back in his chair, resting the back of hishead against the window.  "I couldn't have done it without Liesl.""Your girlfriend.""Liesl's a wonderful, remarkable woman.  My lover, my best friend.  Ah,Ben, I never thought I'd be so lucky as to find someone like this.  Ihope someday you find someone even half as terrific as her.  It was heridea, really.  I'd have never been able to put the plan together.  Sheagreed I had to disappear, and she insisted it had to be done right.""But the dental records I mean, Christ, Peter, they identified your bodypositively, beyond any doubt."Peter shook his head.  "They matched the body's teeth with the dentalrecords back home in Westchester, the assumption being that those werereally my dental X-rays in Dr.  Merrill's office."Ben shook his head, perplexed.  "Whose body... ?""Liesl got the idea from the prank that the medical students at theUniversity of Zurich pull almost every year at the end of the springsemester.  Some joker always steals the cadaver from the gross anatomyclass.  It's sort of a morbid springtime ritual, medical-student humorone day their cadaver just disappears.  It's always reclaimed, sort ofransomed.  Instead, she arranged to have an unclaimed body stolen fromthe hospital morgue.  Then it was a simple matter to pull the dead guy'smedical records, including dental records this is Switzerland,everyone's documented," Ben smiled in spite of himself.  "But to switchthe X-rays ... ?""Let's just say I hired someone to do a simple, low-risk breaking-andentering job.  Dr.  Merrill's office isn't exactly Fort Knox.  One pairof films was substituted for another.  No big deal. When the police cameto him requesting my dental records, they got the substituted ones.""And the plane crash?"Peter explained, leaving out no significant detail.Ben watched him as he spoke.  Peter had always been soft-spoken, quiet,the deliberate, thoughtful one.  But you'd never call him calculating ordevious, and deviousness was what this plan had required.  Howfrightened he must have been."A few weeks earlier, Liesl applied for a position at a small hospitalin the canton of St.  Gallen.  Of course they were delighted to hire herthey needed a pediatrician.  She found us a small cabin in thecountryside, in the woods by a lake, and I joined her.  I posed as herCanadian husband, a writer working on a book.  All the while Imaintained a network of contacts, my antennae.""People who knew you were alive that must have been risky.""Trusted people who knew I was alive.  Liesl's cousin is an attorney inZurich.  He was our listening post, our eyes and ears.  She trusts him completely, and therefore so do I. An attorney with multipleinternational interests has his contacts in the police, in the bankingcommunity, among private investigators.  Yesterday he learned about theblood bath at the Bahnhofplatz, about a foreigner who was brought in forquestioning.  But as soon as Dieter had told me about the murder attempton you, I realized what had happened.  They, the inheritors, whoever onthat list is still around, have probably always been suspicious that mydeath was faked.  They've always been on the alert--either for myreappearance in Switzerland, or else for some sign that you werecarrying on my investigations.  I know for a fact that they've got a lotof Swiss policemen in their pocket, a bounty on my head.  Theypractically own half the cops.  I assume the bank where you had ameeting that morning, UBS, was the tripwire.  So I had to come out ofhiding to warn you."Peter risked his life for me, Ben thought.  He felt the sting of tearscoming to his eyes.  Then he remembered Jimmy Cavanaugh, the man whowasn't there.  Hurriedly, he filled Peter in on the mystery."Incredible," Peter said, and he took on a faraway look."It's like they're trying to gaslight me.  You do remember JimmyCavanaugh?""Of course.  He spent Christmas with us at Bedford a couple of times. Iliked the guy, too.""What could he have had to do with the Corporation?  Did they turn him,somehow, make every trace of his existence disappear at some point?""No," Peter said, "you're missing the point.  Howie Rubin must have beenright.  There is no Jimmy Cavanaugh and there never was."  He beganspeaking more quickly.  "In a twisted way, there's a logic to this.Jimmy Cavanaugh--let's call him that, whatever his real name was--wasnever turned.  He was working for them all along.  Here's a kid who'solder than the rest of the class, lives off campus, and before you knowit, he's your asshole buddy.  Don't you see, Benno? That was the plan.For whatever reason, they must have decided it was important to keep aclose eye on you at that point.  It was a matter of taking precautions.""You're saying Cavanaugh was ... assigned to me!""And probably somebody was assigned to me, too.  Our dad was one of theprincipals.  Did we learn something that might jeopardize theorganization?  Were we going to be a threat to them in some way?  Didthey need to worry about us?  Maybe they needed to be sure.  Until youwent off to your ghetto and I went off to Africa--basically putourselves out to pasture, as far as they were concerned."Ben's mind reeled, and all this talk of they only made matters worse."Doesn't it make sense for a group of industrialists to bring in anoperative, a killer, whose highly specific qualifications includedknowing you by sight?""Hell, Peter, I suppose ...""You suppose?  Benno, if you think about it--"The sound of shattering glass.Ben gasped, saw the jagged hole that suddenly appeared in thewindowpane.  Peter seemed to bow his head, leaning forward deliberatelyonto the table in an oddly comic gesture, as if kowtowing exaggeratedly,genuflecting, giving a courtly salaam.  In that same freeze-frame momentit was the expulsion of breath, the throaty haaah, that made no sense,until Ben saw the obscene crimson exit wound in the middle of Peter'sforehead, the flecks of gray tissue and splinters of white bonefragments that sprayed over the table, on the plates and silverware."Oh, my God!"  Ben keened.  "Oh, my God.  Oh, my God."  He toppledbackward in his chair, tumbling to the floor, his head slamming againstthe hard oak floorboards.  "No," he moaned, barely aware of the volleyof silenced gunfire exploding everywhere in the small dining room.  "Ohno.  Oh, my God."  He was frozen, paralyzed by terror and shock anddisbelief, so unfathomable was the horror in front of him, until someprimitive signal of self-preservation emerged from deep within hishindbrain, propelling him to his feet.Now he looked out of the shattered window, saw nothing but blackness,and then, illuminated by a muzzle flash preceding another gunshot, therewas a face.  The image lasted no longer than a split second, but it wasemblazoned indelibly in his mind.  The assassin's eyes were dark anddeep-set, his face pale and unlined, the skin almost tight.Ben leaped across the small dining room as, behind him, anotherwindowpane shattered, another bullet pitted the plaster in the wall nota foot away.The assassin was aiming at him now, that was clear.  Or was it?  Was hestill aiming at Peter, this shot just wildly astray?  Had he seen him,too?  Did he see him?As if in answer to his unspoken question, a bullet splintered thedoorframe just inches from his head as he vaulted through it into thedark corridor that connected the dining room to the entrance area.  Fromahead, in the foyer, came a female shout, presumably the innkeeperyelling in anger or in fear; suddenly she loomed directly in his path,arms flailing.He knocked her aside as he bounded into the foyer.  The innkeepersquawked in protest.He was barely thinking now, he was moving fast and frantically, dazedand numb and robotic, not having to think about what had just happened,not thinking about anything now except survival.His eyes adjusting to the near-darkness a small lamp in the far cornerof the room, behind the reception counter, cast a tiny circle of lighthe saw there was only the front door and another hallway that led to theguests' rooms.A narrow staircase off the hallway, visible from here, led to more roomsupstairs.  There was no window in the room he was now standing in, whichmeant it was a safe haven from incoming bullets, at least for a fewseconds.On the other hand, the lack of a window meant he was unable to seewhether the shooter had run around to the front of the building. Peter'skiller would have realized he had missed one of his targets, and so he'dhave run either to the front or the back of the inn.  Front entrance orback, unless there were others Ben didn't know about.  That gave Ben afifty-fifty chance of making it out through the front door.Fifty-fifty.Ben didn't like the odds.And what if there were more than one of them?If there were several, they'd have fanned out to stake out allentrances, all exits from the building.  Either way, one or severalkillers out there, escaping through the front or the back was out of thequestion.A scream issued from the dining room: the innkeeper had no doubt justdiscovered the sickening carnage.Welcome to my world, madame.From the floor above Ben could hear the heavy tread of footsteps. Otherguests awakening.Other guests: How many were staying here?He rushed toward the front door, turned the heavy steel safety lock.Rapid footfalls thundered from the staircase on the other side of theroom, then a hulking figure of a fat man appeared at the foot of thestairs.  He was wearing a blue bathrobe, looking as if it had beenhastily thrown on.  The man's face was fearful.  "Was geht hier vor?" hecried."Call the police," Ben yelled back in English.  "Polizei--telephone!" Hepointed at the phone behind the reception desk."The police?  What--is someone hurt?""Telephone!"  Ben repeated angrily.  "Go!  Someone's been killed!"Someone's been killed.The fat man lurched forward clumsily as if he'd been pushed.  He rushedto the reception desk, picked up the telephone, listened for a briefmoment, then dialed.The fat man was now speaking in German, loudly and quickly.Where was the gunman--gunmen?--now?  He'd burst inside and look for himand do to him what he'd done to Peter.  There were other guests here,others who would get in the way... but that wouldn't stop him, would it?He remembered the massacre in the Zurich arcade.  The fat Swiss hung upthe phone.  "She sind unterwegs," he said.  "Police --is coming.""How far away are they?"The man looked at him for a moment, then understood.  "Just down theroad," he said.  "Very near.  What happened--who was killed?""No one you know."Again Ben pointed, this time toward the dining room, but the womaninnkeeper burst through the doorway, shrieking, "Er 1st tote!  She haben ihn erschossen!  Dieser Mann dort draussen--Dein Bruder, er wurdeermordet!"  Somehow she'd concluded that Ben had killed his own brother.Insanity.Ben felt his stomach turn over.  He'd been in a haze, a deadened stupor,and suddenly the reality of it, the horror, was sinking in. The guestshouted something at her.  Ben ran toward the hall that he guessed ledto the rear of the house.The woman was screaming at his back, but Ben kept running.  The highcaterwauling of a police siren joined the innkeeper's shrill hysteria,then grew louder as the police car came closer.  It sounded like asingle siren, a single car.  But that was enough.Stay or go?They own half the cops, Peter had said.He ran down the hall, turned sharply to the right, then saw a smallpainted wooden door.  He flung it open: wooden shelves piled withlinens.The siren grew louder, now accompanied by the crunch of a car's wheelson gravel.  The police were arriving at the front of the building.Ben ran toward another wooden doorway at the end of the hall.  A smalllouvered window next to it told him the door led to the outside.  Heturned the knob and pulled at the door.  It stuck; he pulled again,harder, and this time it yielded and the door came open.The area outside had to be safe by now: the police sirens would havescared the gunmen away.  No one would be lurking in the dense woods backhere for fear of getting caught.  He leaped forward into the underbrush,his foot snagging on a vine, knocking him painfully to the ground.Christ!  he thought.  Must hurry.  The police had to be avoided at allcosts.  They own half the cops.  He scrambled to his feet, lungedforward into the pitch-black.The siren had gone silent, but now there were shouts, both female andmale, the crunch of feet on the gravel.  Running forward, he pushedbranches away from his face, but still one scraped him, just missing aneye.  He kept going, not slowing for a second, turning this way, jukingthat, through the close vegetation, the narrow tunnels, under canopiesformed by interlaced branches.  Something tore at his pants.  His handswere scraped and bloodied.  But he kept plowing through the trees,machinelike, unthinking, until he came to the hidden clearing wherePeter's truck was still parked.He opened the driver's side door--unlocked, thank God--and of coursethere was no key in the ignition.  He felt under the floor mat. Nothing.Under the seat.  Nothing.Panic overcame him.  He inhaled sharply several times to try to calmhimself.  Of course, he thought.  I've forgotten what I know.He reached into the mess of wires beneath the dash, pulled them out toinspect the tangle by the weak overhead light.  Hot-wiring, theirbeloved family groundskeeper, Arnie, had told him and Peter one summermorning.  This is a skill you may never have a use for.  But if you do,you'll sure be glad you got it.In a few moments he'd paired the two wires, and the ignition turnedover, roared to life.  Slamming the gearshift into reverse, he backedout of the clearing onto the dark road.  No headlights in eitherdirection.  He shifted into drive; the old truck balked, but thenlurched ahead, surging down the deserted highway.CHAPTER NINE.Halifax, Nova ScotiaThe next morning was cold and dreary.  Fog had settled gloomily over theport, visibility no more than ten feet ahead.Robert Mailhot lay on a steel examination table, clothed in a blue suit,his face and hands rosy with the funeral home's garish makeup. The facewas bronze-tinted but heavily lined, angry, the thin mouth sunken, thenose a prominent beak.  He looked to be five foot ten or eleven, whichmeant he'd probably been six feet tall as a young man.The medical examiner was a corpulent, ruddy-faced man in his latefifties named Higgins: a thatch of white hair, small suspicious grayeyes.  He was perfectly cordial, while at the same time guarded,neutral.  He wore a green surgical gown.  "So you've got reason tobelieve this was a homicide?"  he said jovially, his eyes watchful.  Hewas dubious and made no attempt to mask it.Anna nodded.Sergeant Arsenault, in a bright red sweater and jeans, was subdued. Bothof them were rattled by their long and difficult interview with thewidow.  In the end, of course, she had given permission for the autopsy,saving them the headache of having to ask for a court order.The hospital morgue reeked of formalin, which always made Anna uneasy.Classical music played tinnily from a portable radio on thestainless-steel counter."You're not expecting to find any trace evidence on the body, I hope,"Higgins said."I assume the body was pretty thoroughly washed at the funeral home,"she said.  Did he think she was an idiot?"What are we looking for, then?""I don't know.  Puncture marks, bruises, wounds, cuts, scratches.""Poison?""Could be."She and Higgins and Arsenault together removed Mailhot's clothing, andthen Higgins swabbed the body's hands and face clean of makeup, whichcould hide marks.  The eyes had been sutured shut at the funeral home;Higgins cut the stitches and inspected for petechial hemorrhages-tinypinpoints of blood under the skin--that might indicate strangulation."Any bruising inside the lips?"  Anna asked.The mouth, too, had been sutured closed.  The medical examiner quicklysliced through the twine with a scalpel, then poked around inside themouth with a latex-gloved finger.  When someone is smothered with apillow with enough pressure to stop the flow of air, Anna knew, youusually find bruises where the lips were forced against the teeth."Uh-uh," he said.  "None that I can see."All three began inspecting the shriveled body with magnifying glasses,inch by inch.  With an old person this is difficult work: the skin iscovered with dings and bruises, moles and broken capillaries, the marksand accretions of age.They looked for needle marks in all the usual places: the back of theneck, between fingers and toes, the backs of the hands, the ankles,behind the ears.  Around the nose and cheeks.  Injection marks could bedisguised with a scratch, but nothing turned up.  Higgins even checkedthe scrotum, which was large and loose, the penis a tiny stub nestled ontop.  Pathologists rarely checked the scrotum.  The guy was thorough.They spent over an hour at it, then turned Mailhot over and did thesame.  Higgins took photographs of the body.  For a long time no onespoke; there was just the stat icky crackle of a clarinet, the lushswell of strings, the hum of refrigerators and other machinery.  Theformalin smell was unpleasant, but at least there was no smell of decay,for which Anna was thankful.  Higgins checked the fingernails for tearsor rips--did the deceased fight an assailant?--and scraped under thenails, putting the scrapings into small white envelopes."Nothing on the epidermis out of the ordinary, far as I can see,"Higgins declared at last.She was disappointed but not surprised.  "Poison could have beeningested," she suggested."Well, it'll turn up in the tox," Higgins said."Maybe not," she said.  "There's no blood.""May be some," Higgins said.  If they were lucky.  Usually, when thefuneral home prepared the body, the blood was completely removed exceptfor small residual pockets, and replaced with embalming fluid. Methanol,ethanol, formaldehyde, dyes.  It broke down certain compounds, poisons,rendering them untraceable.  Maybe there'd be some urine remaining inthe bladder.He cut the usual Y-shaped incision from the shoulder down to the pelvis,then reached inside the thoracic cavity to remove the organs and weighthem.  This was one of the aspects of an autopsy Anna found particularlyrepellent.  She worked with death regularly, but there was a reason shehadn't become a pathologist.Arsenault, looking pale, excused himself to get a cup of coffee."Can you take some samples of brain, some bile, kidney, heart, and soon?"  she said.Higgins smiled tartly: don't tell me my business."Sorry," she said."I'd wager we'll find arteriosclerosis," Higgins said."No doubt," she said.  "The man was old.  Is there a phone around here Ican use?"The pay phone was down the hall next to a vending machine that dispensedcoffee, tea, and hot chocolate.  The front of the machine was a largeoversaturated color photograph of cups of hot chocolate and coffee,intended to look appetizing, but actually greenish and awful. As shedialed she could hear the buzz of the Stryker saw as Higgins cut throughthe rib cage.Arthur Hammond, she knew, normally got to work early.  He ran a poisoncontrol center in Virginia and taught toxicology courses at auniversity.  They'd met on a case and liked each other instantly.  Hewas shy, spoke with an intermittent hesitation that hid an old slammer,rarely looked you in the eyes.  Yet he had a wicked sense of humor.  Hewas a scholar of poisons and poisonings back to the Dark Ages.  Hammondwas far better than anyone in the federal labs, better than any forensicpathologist, and certainly far more willing to help.  He was not onlybrilliant but intuitive.  From time to time she had brought him in as apaid consultant.She caught him at home, on his way out the door, and explained."Where are you?"  he asked."Uh, up north."He gave a short nasal snort of amusement at her secrecy.  "I see. Well,what can you tell me about the victims?""Old.  How do you kill someone undetectably?"A throaty chuckle.  "Just break up with him, Anna.  You don't have tokill him."  This was his way of flirting."What about the old bolus of potassium chloride?"  she said, politelyignoring his joke.  "Stops the heart, right?  Barely changes the body'soverall potassium level, so it's undetectable?""Was he on an IV?"  Higgins asked."I don't think so.  We didn't find any of the usual puncture marks.""Then I doubt it.  It's far too messy.  If he wasn't on an IV, you'dhave to inject it right into a vein, and you'd find blood spewed allover the place.  Not to mention signs of a struggle."She took notes in her tiny leather-bound notebook."It was sudden, right?  So we can rule out long-term heavy metalpoisoning.  Too gradual.  Do you mind if I go get a cup of coffee?""Go ahead."  She smiled to herself.  He knew this stuff cold.He returned in less than a minute.  "Speaking of coffee," he said. "It'seither something in their drink or their food, or else an injection.""But we didn't find any puncture marks.  And believe me, we went overthat body carefully.""If they used a 25-gauge needle you won't see it, probably.  And there'salways sux."She knew he meant succinylcholine chloride, synthetic curare.  "Thinkso?""Famous case back in '67 or '68 a doctor in Florida was convicted ofmurdering his wife with sux, which I'm sure you know is a skeletalmuscle relaxant.  You can't move, can't breathe.  Looks like cardiacarrest.  Famous trial, baffled forensic experts around the world."She jotted a note."There's a long list of skeletal muscle relaxants, all with differentproperties.  Of course, you know, with old folks, anything can tip 'emover the edge.  A little too much nitroglycerin will do it.""Under the tongue, right?""Usually... But there's ampules of, say, amyl nitrite that could killyou if inhaled.  Poppers.  Or butyl nitrite.  You get a majorvasodilator response, drops their blood pressure, they keel over anddie."She wrote furiously."There's even Spanish fly," he said with a cackle.  "Too much can killyou.  I think it's called cantharidin.""The guy was eighty-seven.""All the more reason he might need an aphrodisiac.""I don't want to think about that.""Was he a smoker?""Don't know yet.  I guess we'll see from the lungs.  Why do you ask?""There's an interesting case I just worked on.  Some old folks in SouthAfrica.  They were killed with nicotine.""Nicotine?""You don't have to give that much.""How?""It's a liquid.  Bitter taste, but it can be disguised.  Can also beinjected.  Death comes within minutes.""In a smoker you can't tell, is that it?""You gotta be clever.  I figured this out.  The whole issue is theamount of nicotine in the blood versus its metabolites.  What nicotineturns into after a while--""I know.""In a smoker, you see a lot more of the metabolites than pure nicotine.If it's acute poisoning, you'll see a whole lot more nicotine and a lotless metabolites.""What should I expect from the tox?""A normal toxicology screen is set up to detect drugs of abuse. Opiates,synthetic opiates, morphine, cocaine, LSD, Darvon.  PCP, amphetamine.Benzodiazepines--Valium--and barbiturates.  Sometimes tricyclicantidepressants.  Ask 'em to do the full tox screen plus all theseothers.  Chloral hydrate's not on the screen, order that. Placidyl, anold sleeping drug.  Screen for barbiturates, sleeping drugs.  Fentanyl'sextremely hard to detect. Organophosphates--insecticides.  DMSO--dimethyl sulfoxide-used on horses.  See what you come up with.  I assumethey're going to be doing G.C. Mass.  Spec.""I don't know.  What's that?""Gas chromatography, mass spectrometry.  It's the gold standard.  Howrural are you?""A city.  Canada, actually.""Oh, RCMP is good.  Their crime labs are far better than ours, but don'tquote me on that.  Just make sure they check for anything in the localwater or wells that might skew the tox.  You said the body's embalmed,right?  Have 'em get a sample of the embalming fluid and sub tract itout.  Ask 'em to do a full tox--blood, tissue, hair.  Some proteins arefat soluble.  Cocaine stores in the heart tissue, keep that in mind. Theliver's a sponge.""How long are all these tests going to take?""Weeks.  Months.""No way."  Her exhilaration over talking with him suddenly waned.  Nowshe was depressed."It's true.  Then again, you might get lucky.  Could be months, or itcould be a day.  But if you don't know exactly what poison you'relooking for, odds are you're never going to find it.""There's every evidence he died naturally," Higgins announced when she'dreturned to the lab.  "Cardiac arrhythmia, probably. Arteriosclerosis,of course.  An old MI there."Mailhot's face had been pulled down from the top of the scalp, like alatex mask.  The top of his head was open, the pink ridges of brainvisible.  Anna thought she might be sick.  She saw a lung on a hangingscale.  "How heavy?"  she asked, pointing.He smiled in appreciation.  "Light.  Two hundred forty grams.  Notcongested.""So he died quickly.  We can rule out a CNS depressant.""As I said, it looks like a heart attack."  Higgins seemed to be runningout of patience.She told him what she wanted from the toxicology screen, reading off hernotes.  His eyes widened in disbelief.  "Do you have any idea how costlythis is going to be?"She exhaled.  "The U.S. government will pick up the cost, of course.  Ineed to do this one thoroughly.  If I don't find it now, it's likely Inever will.  Now I need to ask a favor."He looked at her steadily.  She sensed his annoyance."I'm going to ask you to flay the body.""You're kidding me, aren't you?""I'm not.""May I remind you, Agent Navarro, that the widow wants an open casketfuneral?""All they see are the hands and face, right?"  To flay the body meant toremove all the skin, in large chunks so it could be sewn back together.This enabled you to examine the subcutaneous skin.  Sometimes this wasthe only way to discover injection marks.  "Unless you object," shesaid.  "I'm just a visiting fireman."Higgins's face flushed.  He turned to the body, jabbing in the scalpel abit too violently, and began removing the skin.Anna felt light-headed.  Once again she was afraid she might be sick.She left the morgue and returned to the corridor in search of the restroom.  Ron Arsenault approached, clutching a giant cup of take-outcoffee.  "Are we still slicing and dicing in there?"  he asked, his goodhumor seemingly restored."Worse than ever.  We're flaying the skin.""You can't take it either?""I'm just using the little girl's room."He looked skeptical.  "No luck so far, I take it."She shook her head, frowned.He shook his head.  "Don't you Yanks believe in old age?""I'll be right back," she said coolly.She splashed her face with cold water from the sink, realizing too latethat there were no paper towels here, only one of those hot-air handdryers that never worked.  She groaned, went to a stall, pulled a lengthof toilet paper off the roll, and blotted her face with the tissue,leaving white shreds here and there on her face.  She looked in themirror, noticed the dark circles under her eyes, flecked off the stringsof toilet paper, reapplied her makeup and returned to Arsenault feelingrefreshed."He's asking for you," Arsenault said, excited.Higgins held up a leathery yellow sheet of skin about three inchessquare as if it were a trophy.  "You're lucky I did the hands, too," hesaid.  "I'm going to catch hell from the funeral-home director, butpresumably they've got makeup they can cake on to cover the mending.""What is it?"  she asked, heartbeat accelerating."The back of the hand.  The web of the thumb, the abduct or pollucis.Take a look at this."She came closer, as did Arsenault, but she saw nothing.  Higgins pulledthe magnifying glass from the examination table.  "You see this littlepurplish-red flare, about half an inch long?  Sort of flame-shaped?""Yeah?""There's your injection mark.  Believe me, that's not where any nurse ordoctor puts a syringe.  You may have something, after all."CHAPTER TEN.Bedford, New YorkMax Hartman sat in his high-backed leather desk chair, in the book linedlibrary where he usually received visitors.  It was strange, Benthought, the way his father chose to sit behind the barrier of hisimmense leather-topped mahogany desk, even when meeting with his ownson.In the tall chair the old man, once tall and strong, looked wizened,almost gnome like surely not the effect he'd intended.  Ben sat on aleather chair facing the desk."When you called, you sounded as if you had something you wanted to talkto me about," Max said.He spoke with a refined mid-Atlantic accent, the German long submerged,barely detectable.  As a young man recently arrived in America, MaxHartman had taken speech training and elocution lessons, as if he'dwanted to banish all traces of his past.Ben peered at his father closely, trying to make sense of the man.  Youwere always an enigma to me.  Distant, formidable, unknowable.  "I do,"he said.A stranger seeing Max Hartman for the first time would notice the largebald head, speckled with age spots, the prominent fleshy ears.  Theeyes, large and rheumy, grotesquely magnified behind the thick lenses ofhis horn-rimmed glasses.  The jutting jaw, the nostrils permanentlyflared as if he were smelling a bad odor.  Yet for all that age hadwrought, it was evident that this was a man who'd once been quitehandsome, even striking.The old man was dressed, as he always was, in one of his bespoke suits,tailored for him on Savile Row, London.  Today's was a splendidcharcoal, with a crisp white shirt, his initials monogrammed on thebreast pocket; a blue and gold rep tie, heavy gold cufflinks.  Ten inthe morning on a Sunday, and Max was dressed for a board meeting.It was funny how your perceptions were shaped by your history, Benreflected.  At times he could observe his father as he was now, old andfragile, yet at other moments he couldn't help seeing him through theeyes of an abashed child: powerful, intimidating.The truth was, Ben and Peter had always been slightly afraid of theirfather, a little nervous around him.  Max Hartman intimidated mostpeople; why should his own sons be the exception?  It took real effortto be Max's son, to love and understand him and feel tenderness towardhim.  It was like learning a complex foreign language, one that Petercouldn't, or wouldn't, learn.Ben suddenly flashed on Peter's terrible, vindictive expression when herevealed what he'd discovered about Max.  And then that image of Peter'sface gave way to a flood of memories of his adored brother.  He felt histhroat constrict, his eyes fill with tears.Don't think, he told himself.  Don't think of Peter.  Here, in thishouse where we played hide-and-seek and pummeled each other, conspiredin whispers in the middle of the night, screamed and laughed and cried.Peter's gone, and now you've got to hang in there for him too.Ben had no idea how to begin, how to broach the subject.  On the planeout of Basel he'd rehearsed how he was going to confront his father. Nowhe'd forgotten everything he'd planned to say.  The one thing he'dresolved was not to tell him about Peter, about his reappearance, hismurder.  For what?  Why torture the old man?  As far as Max Hartmanknew, Peter had been killed years ago.  Why should he be told the truthnow that Peter really was dead?Anyway, confrontation wasn't Ben's style.  He let his father talkbusiness, ask about the accounts Ben was managing.  Man, he thought, theold guy is still sharp.  He tried to change the subject, but therereally wasn't any easy or elegant way to say, By the way, Dad, were youa Nazi, if you don't mind my asking?Finally, Ben took a stab at it: "I guess being in Switzerland made merealize how little I know about, about when you were in Germany..."His father's eyes seemed to grow larger behind the magnifying lenses. Heleaned forward.  "Now, what inspires this sudden interest in familyhistory?""Really, I think it was just being in Switzerland.  It reminded me ofPeter.  This was the first time I'd been back there since his death."His father looked down at his hands.  "I don't dwell on the past, youknow that.  I never did.  I only look ahead, not behind.""But your time at Dachau we've never talked about that.""There's really nothing to say.  I was brought there, I was fortunateenough to survive, I was liberated on April 29, 1945.  I will neverforget the date, but it's a part of my life I prefer to forget."Ben inhaled, then launched in.  He was keenly aware that hisrelationship with his father was about to be altered forever, the fabricabout to be torn.  "Your name isn't on the list of prisoners liberatedby the Allies."It was a bluff.  He watched his father's reaction.Max stared at Ben for a long moment, and then to Ben's surprise hesmiled.  "You must always be wary of historical documents.  Lists throwntogether at a time of enormous chaos.  Names spelled wrong, namesomitted.  If my name is missing from some list compiled by some U.S.Army sergeant, so what?""But you weren't at Dachau, were you?"  Ben asked quietly.His father slowly swiveled his chair around, turning his back to Ben.His voice, when it came, was reedy, somehow distant.  "What a strangething to say."Ben felt his stomach flutter.  "But true, right?"Max swiveled back around.  His face was expressionless, blank, but ablush had appeared on his papery cheeks.  "There are people who make aprofession out of denying that the Holocaust ever happened.  So calledhistorians, writers--they publish books and articles saying the wholething was a fake, a conspiracy.  That millions of Jews weren'tmurdered."Ben found his heart thudding, his mouth dry.  "You were a lieutenant inHitler's SS.  Your name is on a document--a document of incorporationlisting members of a board of directors of a secret company.  You werethe treasurer."When his father replied, it was in a terrible whisper.  "I won't listento this," he said."It's true, isn't it?""You have no idea what you're talking about.""It's why you never spoke about Dachau.  Because it was all a fiction.You were never there.  You were a Nazi.""How can you say such things?"  the old man rasped.  "How can youpossibly believe this?  How dare you insult me this way!""That document--it's in Switzerland.  Articles of incorporation.  Thewhole truth is there."Max Hartman's eyes flashed.  "Someone showed you a fraudulent document,designed to discredit me.  And you, Benjamin, chose to believe it.  Thereal question is why."Ben could feel the room revolving around him slowly.  "Because Petertold me himself!"  he shouted.  "Two days ago in Switzerland.  He founda document!  He found out the truth.  Peter found out what you had done.He tried to protect us from it.""Peter--?"  Max gasped.The expression of his father's face was terrible, but Ben forced himselfto keep going."He told me about this corporation, who you really were.  He was tellingme everything when he was shot dead."The blood had drained from Max Hartman's face, the gnarled hand thatrested on his desk visibly trembling."Peter was killed before my eyes."  And now Ben almost spat the words:"My brother, your son--another one of your victims.""Lies!"  his father shouted."No," Ben said.  "The truth.  Something you've kept from us all ourlives."Abruptly, Max's voice became hushed and cold, an arctic wind.  "Youspeak of things you cannot possibly understand."  He paused.  "Thisconversation is over.""I understand who you are," Ben said.  "And it sickens me.""Leave," Max Hartman shouted and he raised a quivering arm toward thedoor.  Ben could picture that same arm raised in an SS salute, in a pastthat was distant but not distant enough.  Never distant enough. And herecalled some writer's often quoted words: The past isn't dead. It isn'teven past."Get out!"  his father thundered.  "Get out of this house!"Washington, D.C.The Air Canada flight from Nova Scotia arrived at Reagan National in thelate afternoon.  The taxi pulled up to Anna's Adams-Morgan apartmentbuilding just before six.  It was already dark.She loved coming home to her apartment.  Her sanctuary.  The only placewhere she felt utterly in charge.  It was a small one-bedroom in a badneighborhood, but it was her own perfectly realized world.Now, as she got out of the elevator on her floor, she met her neighbor,Tom Bertorie, who was heading down.  Tom and his wife, Danielle, wereboth lawyers, both a little effusive, a little too neighborly, butpleasant enough.  "Hey, Anna, I met your kid brother today," he said. "Iguess he'd just gotten into town.  Really nice guy."  And the elevatordoors closed behind him.Brother?She had no brother.At the door to her apartment, she waited a long moment, trying to calmher racing heart.  She fished out her gun, a government-issue 9 mmSig-Sauer, holding it in one hand as she turned the key with the other.Her apartment was dark, and, recalling her early training, she went intostandard E&S, evasion and search, tactics.  That meant flatteningyourself against a wall with a pistol drawn, then shifting to anorthogonal wall, and repeating the process.  They drilled it into fieldagents with the training sets, but she never imagined she'd be doing itin her own apartment, her home, her sanctuary.She closed the door behind her.  Silence.But there was something.  A barely detectable odor of cigarettes, thatwas it.  Too faint to be from an actual lighted cigarette; it had to bethe residue from the clothing of someone who smoked.Someone who had been in her apartment.In the dim light provided by the streetlights outside, she could seesomething else: one of the drawers of her file cabinets was slightlyajar.  She always kept them neatly shut.  Someone had been searchingthrough her belongings.Her blood ran cold.There was a draft from the bathroom: the window had been left open.And then she heard a sound, quiet but not quiet enough: the almostinaudible squeak of a rubber-soled shoe on the bathroom tile.The intruder was still there.She flipped on the main overhead light, wheeled around in a crouch, her9 mm drawn, the weight of it balanced in her two hands.  She wasgrateful that it was a Sig factory short trigger, which fit her handsbetter than the standard model.  The intruder wasn't visible, but theapartment was small and there weren't many places he could be.  Shestraightened up and, adhering to the perimeter rule hug the walls, theE&S instructors liked to say she made her way toward the bedroom.She felt the movement of air an instant before the gun was dislodgedfrom her hands by a powerful kick from seemingly out of nowhere.  Wherehad he come from?  Behind the bureau?  The filing cabinets?  The gunclattered as it hit the sitting room floor.  Retrieve it, whatever youdo.Abruptly she was slammed backward by another kick, and she sprawledagainst the bedroom door, her back hitting it with a dull thud.  Shefroze in place as the man took a few steps back.Except that he was hardly a man.  He had the slender frame of anadolescent.  As powerful as he was sinewy muscles flexed under a tightblack T-shirt he looked no older than seventeen.  It didn't make sense.Slowly, carefully, she got to her feet and began moving, with feignedcasualness, toward the oatmeal-colored sofa.  The blue-gray butt of herSig-Sauer protruded from under its plaited hem, just barely visible."Burglary's a real serious problem in this neighborhood, isn't it?" theman-boy said in a tone of rich irony.  His glossy, black hair was cutshort, his skin looked as if he'd only recently started to shave, andhis features were small and regular.  "The statistics are shocking." Hescarcely sounded like the typical delinquents who haunted SoutheastWashington.  If she had to guess, she'd say he wasn't a native of thiscountry; she thought she detected a trace of an Irish brogue."There's nothing of value here."  Anna tried to sound calm.  "You mustknow that by now.  Neither of us wants any trouble."  She realized herhand was still numb from the blow.  Keeping her gaze on him, she tookanother step toward the sofa.  Trying for a light tone, she added,"Anyway, shouldn't you be in school or something?""Never send a man to do a boy's work," he replied agreeably.  Suddenlyhe unleashed another roundhouse kick and she reeled backward against hersmall wooden bureau.  The blow had landed squarely on her stomach, andshe found herself gasping for breath."Did you know," the young intruder continued, "that as often as not it'sthe owners of handguns who are killed by them?  Another statistic thatbears thinking about.  You really can't be too careful."He wasn't a burglar, that much was obvious.  He didn't talk like oneeither.  But what was he after?  She squeezed her eyes shut for amoment, mentally taking an inventory of her sparsely furnishedapartment, her paltry belongings, the clothes, the lamps, thehumidifier, the clothes... the M26.  Must try to find the M26!  No doubthe'd searched the place thoroughly, but this was an item whose functionwould not be obvious to those unfamiliar with it.  "I'll get you money,"she said loudly, and turned to the bureau, opening drawers.  "I'll getyou money," she repeated.  Where had she kept the device?  And would itstill work?  It had been at least two years.  She found it in the largecentral drawer, next to several red cardboard boxes of checkbooks.  "Allright," she said, "here it is."When she turned around to face him, she had the M26 Tasertron firmly inher grasp, switched it on, a high-pitched whine indicating that thedevice was fully charged."I want you to listen to me carefully," she said.  "This is an M26Taser, the most powerful one they make.  Move away from me now, or Iwill use it.  I don't care what kind of martial arts you knowtwenty-five thousand volts will take the starch out of you."The intruder's expression was blank, but he began to walk away from her,backing into the bathroom.The instant the stun gun was activated, the cartridge would fire off thecontactors, two fine conducting wires ending in quarter-inch needlepoints.  The electricity discharged would be of a voltage sufficient toimmobilize him for a spell, perhaps even knock him out.She followed him toward the bathroom.  He was inexperienced; by backingup into the small room, he had allowed himself to be cornered.  A badmove, an amateurish slip.  She switched the Taser on maximum; there wasno point in taking any risks at this point.  The device in her handhummed and crackled.  A blue arc of electricity played between twovisible electrodes.  She would aim for his midriff.Suddenly she heard an unexpected sound, that of water running, the roarof the tap turned up full.  What the hell was he up to?  She lunged intothe bathroom, aiming the Taser, and saw the man-child wheel around withsomething in his hands.  Too late, she realized his gambit.  It was thenozzle of her handheld shower, which propelled a drenching blast ofwater in her direction.  Water that would ordinarily have been harmless.She dropped the primed M26 an instant too late.  A bolt of electricityarced from it toward her drenched torso, a blue bolt of agony.  As hermajor muscle groups spasmed, she collapsed to the floor, only the paincutting through her dazed state."It's been a blast," the young man said tonelessly.  "But I'm alreadyrunning late.  Catch you later."  He winked, in a caricature ofaffection.She watched, helpless, as he clambered out the bathroom window anddisappeared down the fire escape.By the time she was able to call the municipal police, she had verifiedthat nothing was missing from the apartment.  But that was the onlyquestion she'd been able to answer.  The cops, when they arrived, askedthe usual questions, debated whether to classify the incident as a homeinvasion or a burglary, and then seemed to run out of ideas.  They'd dothe crime-scene workup they understood that she was some kind of fed,that she seemed to know what she was talking about.  But it would takeseveral hours.  And in the meantime?Anna glanced at her watch.  Eight p.m. She called David Denneen's homenumber.  "I'm sorry to bother you," she said, "but is that guest room ofyours free?  It seems my apartment has just turned into a crime scene.""A crime ... Jesus," Denneen said.  "What happened?""I'll explain later.  Sorry to spring this on you.""Have you eaten yet?  Come on over now.  We'll set an extra place."David and Ramon lived in a prewar apartment near Dupont Circle, afifteen-minute cab drive away.  It wasn't grand, but it was nicelyappointed, with high ceilings and leaded windows.  From the savoryaromas she inhaled when she came in chile, anise, cumin she guessed thatRamon was cooking one of his moles.Three years ago, Denneen was a junior agent under her command.  He was afast learner, did good work, and was responsible for several breaks;he'd tailed a White House special assistant to the Qatar Embassy, a leadthat resulted in a major corruption investigation.  She'd filed glowingreports in his personnel file, but soon she learned that Arliss Dupree,as the unit director, had been appending "fitness" evaluations of hisown.  They were vague but damning in intent: Denneen "wasn't governmentmaterial."  He "lacked the fortitude" expected of an OSI investigator,was "soft," "possibly unreliable," "flighty."  His "attitude wasproblematic."  All of it was nonsense, the bureaucratic camouflage of avisceral hostility, a reflexive prejudice.Anna had become friends with both David and Ramon, had met them as acouple when she'd stopped in Kramerbooks, on Connecticut Avenue, and sawthem shopping together.  Ramon was a small, open-faced man with an easysmile, his white teeth dazzling against his dark complexion.He worked as an administrator for the local Meals on Wheels program. Heand Anna warmed to each other immediately; Ramon insisted that she dinewith them that evening, as a spur-of-the-moment thing, and she agreed.It was a magical occasion, partly because of the excellence of Ramon'spaella, partly because of the relaxed conversation and easy banter, noneof which ever touched upon office matters; she envied them their easyintimacy and affection.David, with his square jaw and sandy hair, was a tall, ruggedly handsomeman, and Ramon noticed the way she looked at him.  "I know what you'rethinking," he confided to her at one point, when David was across theroom with his back to them, fixing drinks.  "You're thinking, "What awaste."  "Anna laughed.  "It's crossed my mind," she said."All the girls say that."  Ramon grinned.  "Well, he ain't wasted onme."A few weeks later, Anna had lunch with David and explained to him why hehadn't received a promotion from E-3 grade.  On paper, he reported toAnna, but Anna reported to Dupree.  "What would you like me to do?" Annaasked.Denneen responded quietly, with less outrage than Anna felt on hisbehalf.  "I don't want to make a big deal of this.  I just want to do mywork."  He looked at her.  "Truth?  I want to get the hell out ofDupree's division.  I happen to be interested in operations andstrategy.  I'm only E-3, so I can't arrange it.  But you might be ableto."Anna pulled a few strings.  It meant doing an end-run around Dupree,which didn't exactly endear her to OSI management.  But it worked, andDenneen never forgot it.Now she filled in Denneen about what had happened at her apartment, andbetween Ramon's chicken mole and a bottle of a velvety Rioja, she feltsome of her tension ebb.  Soon she found herself joking grimly abouthaving been "trounced by a member of the Back Street Boys.""You could have been killed," Denneen said solemnly, not for the firsttime."But I wasn't.  Which proves that wasn't what he was after.""And what might that have been?"Anna just shook her head."Listen, Anna.  I know you probably can't talk about it, but do youthink there's any chance it has to do with your new assignment atI.C.U?Old Alan Bartlett has kept so many secrets over the years, there's notelling what he's got you up against.""El diablo sake mas par viejo que par diablo," Ramon muttered.  It wasone of his mother's proverbs: The devil knows more because he is oldthan because he is the devil."Is it a coincidence?"  Denneen persisted.Anna looked at her wineglass and shrugged, wordlessly.  Were othersinterested in the death of the people in the Sigma files?  She couldn'tthink about this right now, and didn't want to."Have some more camitas," Ramon said helpfully.The following morning at the M Street building, Anna was summoned toBartlett's office the instant she arrived."What did you learn in Nova Scotia?"  Bartlett asked, not wasting anytime on social niceties this time.She'd earlier decided against mentioning the intruder in her apartment;there was no reason to think it was related, and she worried, vaguely,that the episode would undermine his confidence in her.  She told himabout what was clearly relevant: the puncture mark in the old man'shand.Bartlett nodded slowly.  "What kind of poison did they use?""Haven't gotten the toxicology results back yet.  It takes time. Alwaysdoes.  If they find something, they call you right away.  If they don't,they keep testing and testing.""But you really believe Mailhot might have been poisoned."  Bartlettsounded nervous, as if uncertain whether this was good news or bad."I do," she said.  "Then there's the money question.  Four months agothe guy got a wire transfer of a million bucks."Bartlett knit his brows.  "From?""No idea.  An account in the Cayman Islands.  Then the trail disappears.Laundered."Bartlett listened in perplexed silence.She went on.  "So I got the bank records going back ten years, and thereit is, regular as clockwork.  Every year Mailhot got a chunk of money,wired into his account.  Steadily increasing amounts.""A business partnership, perhaps?""According to his wife, these were payouts from a grateful employer.""A very generous employer.""A very rich one.  And a very dead one.  The old man spent most of hislife working as a personal assistant to a wealthy press baron.  Abodyguard, a factotum, a lifelong gofer, best I can figure it.""To whom?""Charles Highsmith."  Anna watched Bartlett's reaction carefully.  Henodded briskly; he'd already known this."The question, of course, is why the offshore payments," he said.  "Whynot a straightforward transfer from Highsmith's estate?"Anna shrugged.  "That's just one of many questions.  I suppose one wayto answer it is to trace the funds, see if they really did originatewith Charles Highsmith's estate.  I've done work before on laundereddrug money.  But I can't be optimistic."Bartlett nodded.  "What about the widow... ?""No help.  She may be covering something up, but as far as I can tell,she didn't know much about her husband's business.  Seemed to think hewas in the grip of paranoia.  Apparently, he was one of those whothought Highsmith's death might not have been an accident.""Is that right?"  Bartlett said, with a tincture of irony."And you're another one, aren't you?  Obviously you knew aboutHighsmith's connection to Mailhot.  Was there a Sigma file on him, too?""That's immaterial.""Forgive me, but you'll have to let me be the judge of that.  I have asense that not much I'm reporting comes as news to you."Bartlett nodded.  "Highsmith was Sigma, yes.  Both master and servantwere, in this case.  Highsmith seems to have placed great trust inMailhot.""And now the two are inseparable," Anna said grimly."You did superb work in Halifax," Bartlett said.  "I hope you know that.I also hope you didn't unpack.  It appears that we've got a fresh one.""Where?""Paraguay.  Asuncion."A fresh one.  The words were, she had to admit, intriguing as well aschilling.  At the same time, the Ghost's high-handed way withinformation filled her with frustration and a deep sense of unease. Shestudied the man's face, half-admiring its complete opacity.  Whatprecisely did he know?  What wasn't he telling her?And why?CHAPTER ELEVEN.St.  Gallen, SwitzerlandBen Hartman had spent the last two days traveling.  From New York toParis.  From Paris to Strasbourg.  At Strasbourg he had taken a shortcommuter flight to Mulhouse, France, near the borders of Germany andSwitzerland.  There he had hired a car to drive him to the regional Aeroport Basel-Mulhouse, very close to Basel.But instead of crossing into Switzerland, which was the logical point ofentry, he instead chartered a small plane to take him to Liechtenstein.Neither the charter operator nor the pilot had asked him any questions.Why would an apparently prosperous-looking international businessman beseeking to enter the duchy of Liechtenstein, one of the world's centersof money-laundering, in a manner that was undetectable, and franklyirregular, avoiding official border crossings?  The code among them wasunderstood: don't ask.By the time he had arrived in Liechtenstein, it was almost one in themorning.  He spent the night in a small pension outside Vaduz, and thenset off in the morning to find a pilot who would be willing to cross theSwiss border, in such a way that his name would appear on no manifestsor passenger lists.In Liechtenstein, the plumage of an international businessman--the Kitondouble-breasted suit, the Hermes tie, and the Charvet shirt--wasprotective coloration, nothing more.  The duchy distinguished sharplyamong insiders and outsiders, among those who had something of value tooffer and those who had not, among those who belonged and those who didnot.  It was emblematic of its clannishness that foreigners who soughtto become citizens had to be approved by both the parliament and theprince.Ben Hartman knew his way around places like these.  In the past, thatfact had filled him with moral unease, his permanent, ineradicable airof privilege burning like the mark of Cain.  Now it was merely atactical advantage to be exploited.  Twenty kilometers south of Vaduzwas an airstrip where businessmen with private jets and helicopterssometimes disembarked.  There he had a conversation with a gruff, oldermember of the ground maintenance crew, referring to his requirements interms that were both vague and unmistakable.  A man of few words, helooked Ben over and scrawled a phone number on the back of a manifestledger. Ben tipped him generously for the recommendation, though when hecalled the number, he reached a groggy-sounding man who begged off,saying he had another job today.  He did, however, have a friend, GasparAnother call.  It was afternoon before he finally met with Caspar, adyspeptic middle-aged man, who sized Ben up quickly and spelled out hisexorbitant terms.  In truth, the pilot made a handsome living flyingbusinessmen over the border into Switzerland without leaving a trace inthe computers.  There were times when certain drug lords or Africanpotentates or Middle Eastern operators needed to do some banking in bothcountries without the authorities watching.  The pilot, who seemed towear a perpetual sneer, assumed that Ben was up to something similar.Half an hour later, preparing for their departure, Caspar had learned ofa storm over St.  Gallen and wanted to cancel the flight, but severalmore hundred-dollar bills had persuaded him otherwise.As the light twin-engine propeller plane bounced through the turbulenceover the eastern Alpine ranges, the taciturn pilot became almostvoluble.  "There's a saying where I come from.  Es 1st besser reich zuleben, a/5 reich zu sterben."  He chuckled.  "It's better to live richthan to die rich ...""Just fly," Ben said dully.He wondered whether his precautions were overly elaborate, but the truthwas that he had no idea what the reach was of the people who hadmurdered his brother, or who had assigned the man he'd known as JimmyCavanaugh to try to kill him in Zurich.  And he did not intend to makethings easy for them.In St.  Gallen, Ben had hitched a ride with a farmer deliveringvegetables to the markets and restaurants.  The farmer surveyed him withbafflement; Ben explained that his car had broken down in the middle ofnowhere.  Later on, he rented a car and drove to the remote farmingcommunity of Mettlenberg.  If the flight had been bumpy, the drivewasn't much better.  The rain poured down, sheeting the windshield ofthe rented car.  The car's wipers flicked back and forth quickly butuselessly, for the rain was too hard.  It was late afternoon, andalready it was dark.  Ben could barely see a few feet in front of him.It was probably fortunate that the traffic in both directions on thissmall rural road was heavy, inching along.He was in a remote, sparsely populated area in the northeastern part ofSwitzerland, in the canton of St.  Gallen, not far from Lake Constance.From time to time, when the rain momentarily abated, he was able to seethe large working farms on either side of the road.  Herds of cattle,flocks of sheep, acres of cultivated land.  There were large primitivebuildings containing stables and barns and evidently living quarters aswell, all under one large double-thatched roof.  Beneath the eaves werewoodpiles stacked with geometric precision.As he drove he experienced a whole range of emotions, from fear to thedeepest sadness to an almost violent anger.  Now he was approaching acluster of buildings in what had to be the village of Mettlenberg.  Therain had slowed to a drizzle.  Ben could see the ruins of a oncefortified medieval town.  There was an old granary and an earlysixteenth-century church of St.  Maria.  There were picturesque,well-preserved stone houses with decorated timber faces, gables, andhalf-hipped red roofs.  It was barely a village at all.Peter had said that Liesl, his lover, had applied for an opening at asmall hospital here.  He had checked; there was only one hospital forkilometers around: the Regwnahpital Sankt Gallen Nord.A short distance past the "town center" was a relatively modern buildingof red brick, cheaply constructed, Ben guessed, in the 1960s. Theregional hospital.  He found a Migros gasoline station where he parkedthe car and made a call from the pay phone.When the hospital switchboard operator answered, Ben said slowly, inEnglish, "I need to speak to the pediatrician.  My child is ill." Thereseemed little point in using his tourist German, since he wouldn't beable to disguise his American accent, anyway, and a Swiss operator wouldknow English.Peter had said that the hospital had hired Liesl because they "needed apediatrician," as if they had none other.  Then again, maybe there wereothers, but Ben doubted it, not in a hospital as small as this one."I will connect you with the eh, the Notfallstation, sir.  The emergency""No," Ben interrupted quickly.  "Not the emergency room.  I need tospeak directly with the pediatrician.  Is there more than one on staff?""Just one, sir, but the doctor is not in at this time."Just one!  Inwardly, Ben exulted; had he found her?"Yes, a woman named Liesl-something, right?""No, sir.  There is no Liesl on the staff here as far as I know.  Thepediatrician is Dr.  Margarethe Hubli, but I tell you, she is not in thehospital.  Let me connect ""I must be mistaken.  That was the name I was given.  Was there a doctorby the name of Liesl who left recently?""Not that I know of, sir."Strike out.He had a thought.  There was a chance that Dr.  Hubli would know Liesl,know who she was, where she had gone.  This had to be the hospital whereLiesl had gotten a job."Is there a number where I can reach Dr.  Hubli?""I'm afraid I can't give out her home number, sir, but if you bring yourchild into the hospital ""Can you page her for me?""Yes, sir, I can do that.""Thank you."  He gave the number of the pay phone and a false name.Five minutes later the phone rang."Mr.  Peters?"  a woman's voice asked in English."Thank you for calling, Doctor.  I'm an American staying with friendshere, and I'm trying to reach a doctor who I believe was on the staff ofthe regional hospital.  I'm wondering whether you might know her a womannamed Liesl?"There was a pause too long a pause.  "I don't know any Liesl," thepediatrician said.Was she lying to protect Liesl?  Or was he simply imagining it?"Are you certain?"  Ben persisted.  "I was told there was a pediatriciannamed Liesl there, and it's urgent that I reach her.  It's a familymatter.""What sort of 'family matter'?"Bingo.  She had to be protecting Liesl."It concerns her... her brother, Peter.""Her brother?"  The pediatrician seemed confused."Tell her my name is Ben."Another long silence passed."Where are you?"  the woman asked.Barely twenty minutes went by before a small red Renault pulled into thegas station.A petite woman en robed in a large military-green rain poncho, wearingmud-caked jeans and boots, got out tentatively before slamming the cardoor shut.  She spotted him and approached.  She was a real beauty, Bencould see.  Not what he had expected, for some reason.  Under the ponchohood he could see her short glossy dark brown hair.  She had luminousblue eyes and a milky-white complexion.  But her face was drawn,pinched: she looked scared."Thanks for coming," he said.  "You obviously know Liesl.  I'm herhusband's twin brother."She kept staring at him.  "Good Lord," she breathed, "you look just likehim.  It's, it's like seeing a ghost."  Her face, a mask of tension,suddenly crumpled.  "Dear God," she gasped, breaking out in sobs, "hewas so careful!  So ... many years ..."Ben looked at the doctor, confused."He didn't come back that night," she went on in a panicked rush.  "Istayed up late, worried, terrified."  She covered her face with herhands.  "And then Dieter came by and told me what had happened ...""Liesl," Ben breathed."Oh, God!"  she wailed.  "He was such a--such a good man.  I loved himso much."Ben wrapped his arms around her, sustaining her in a great hug ofassurance, and he too felt his tears begin to flow.Asuncion, ParaguayAnna was stopped at Customs by a fleshy-faced Paraguayan official in ashort-sleeve blue shirt and tie.  From his hair and complexion she couldtell he was, like most Paraguayans, a mestizo, of mixed Spanish andIndian ancestry.He sized her up, then tapped her carry-on bag, indicating that he wantedher to open it.  He asked her a few questions in heavily accentedEnglish, then, glowering with apparent disappointment, waved herthrough.She felt furtive, like a criminal casing a joint.  Normal federalregulations required a visiting agent to check in with the localembassy, but she would do no such thing.  The risk of a leak was toogreat.  If trouble resulted, she'd deal with the protocol breach later.She found a pay phone in the crowded airport lobby.  It took her aminute or two to figure out how to use her calling card.A message from Arliss Dupree, demanding to know when she would bereturning to the OSI unit.  And a message from Sergeant Arsenault of theRCMP.  The toxicology results were in.  He didn't say what they were.When she reached RCMP headquarters in Ottawa, she was put on hold for asolid five minutes while they chased down Ron Arsenault."How're you doin' there, Anna?"She could tell from his voice.  "Nothing, huh?""I'm sorry."  He didn't sound sorry.  "I guess you wasted your timehere.""I don't think so."  She tried to mask her disappointment.  "Theinjection mark is significant.  You mind if I talk to the toxicologist?"He hesitated a moment.  "I don't see why not, but it's not going tochange anything.""I'd just feel better about it.""Hey, why not?"  Arsenault gave her a Halifax number.The airport was loud and chaotic.  It was hard to hear the voice on thephone.The toxicologist's name was Denis Weese.  His voice was high and hoarseand ageless he could have been in his sixties or in his twenties."We ran every single test you requested and then some," he saiddefensively.She tried to imagine him: small and bald, she decided.  "I'm grateful toyou.""They were extremely costly, you know.""We're paying for them.  But let me ask you this: Aren't theresubstances, toxins, that cross the blood-brain barrier, and then don'tcross back?"  Arthur Hammond, her poison expert, had suggested such ascenario in passing."I suppose there are.""Which might be found only in the spinal fluid?""I wouldn't count on it, but it's possible."  He was grudging: he didn'tappreciate her theories.She waited, and when he didn't go on, she asked the obvious: "How abouta spinal tap?""Can't.""Why not?""For one thing, it's just about impossible to do a spinal tap on a deadbody.  There's no pressure.  It won't come out.  For another, the body'sgone.""Buried?"  She bit her lower lip.  Damn."The funeral's this afternoon, I think.  The body's been moved back tothe funeral home.  Burial's tomorrow morning.""But you could go there, couldn't you?""Theoretically, but what for?""Isn't the eye--the ocular fluid--the same as the spinal fluid?""Yeah.""You can draw that, can't you?"A pause.  "But you didn't order it.""I just did," she said.Mettlenberg, St.  Gotten, SwitzerlandNow Liesl had fallen silent.  The tears, which had coursed down hercheeks, dampening her denim workshirt, were beginning to dry.Of course it was she.  How could he not have known?They were sitting in the front seat of her car.  Standing on the asphaltisland of the gas station was too exposed, she said, after she'dregained her composure.  Ben remembered sitting in the front seat ofPeter's truck.She looked ahead, through the windshield.  There was only the sound ofthe occasional car roaring by, a truck's deep-throated horn.At last she spoke.  "It is not safe for you to be here.""I took precautions.""If anyone sees you with me--""They'll think it's Peter, your husband--""But if the people who killed him, who know he is dead, have somehowtracked me down--""If they'd tracked you down, you wouldn't be here," Ben said.  "You'd bedead."She was silent for a moment.  Then: "How did you get here?"He told her in detail about the private planes and cars, his circuitousroute.  He knew- she would find his caution reassuring.  She noddedappreciatively."I imagine those kinds of security precautions became second nature toyou and Peter," he said.  "Peter told me it was you who devised his fakedeath.  That was brilliant.""If it was so brilliant," she said mordantly, "they'd never have foundhim again.""No.  I blame myself for that.  I should never have come to Switzerland,brought them out of the woodwork.""But how could you have known?  You didn't think Peter was alive!"  Sheturned to face him.Her skin was pale, almost translucent, her hair chestnut with goldenhighlights.  She was slender, with perfect smallish breasts under asimple white blouse.  She was extravagantly beautiful.No wonder Peter had been willing to give up everything else in his lifeto spend it with her.  Ben felt a powerful attraction, but he knew hewould never act on it."You don't go by your real name," he said."Of course not.  All of my friends here know me by another name.  It'slegally changed.  Margarethe Hubli was the name of a great-aunt,actually.  All they knew about Peter was that he was a boyfriend, aCanadian writer I was supporting.  They knew him under a different name,too ..."Her words trailed off, and she fell silent, once again staring out thewindow.  "He kept up some of his contacts, though, the ones he trusted.He called them his 'early warning system."  And then a few days ago,when he got a call telling him about the blood bath at theBahnhofstrasse... He understood what had happened.  I begged him not todo anything.  But no, he insisted on it!  He said he had no choice." Herface had twisted into an expression of contempt, her voice a wail. Ben'sheart was squeezed.She went on in a small, choked voice, "He had to protect you.  Persuadeyou to get out of the country.  He had to save your life even if itmeant putting his own in danger.  Oh, God, I warned him not to go.  Ibegged, pleaded with him."Ben took her hand.  "I'm so sorry."  What could he say, really?  That hewas anguished beyond words that Peter had to die instead of himself?That he wished it was the other way around?  That he had loved Peter forfar longer than she had?She said softly, "I can't even claim his body, can I?""No.  Neither of us can."She swallowed.  "Peter loved you so much, you know."It was painful to hear.  He winced.  "We fought a lot.  I guess it'slike that law of physics, about how every action has an equal andopposite reaction.""You two didn't just look alike, you were alike.""Not really.""Only a twin would say that.""You don't know me.  Temperamentally, emotionally, we were totallydifferent.""Maybe in the way that two snowflakes are different.  They're stillsnowflakes."Ben smiled appreciatively.  "I'm not sure I'd call the two of ussnowflakes.  We were always too much trouble."Something in that set her off again.  Now she was weeping, her agonyheartbreaking.  "Oh, God, why did they have to kill him?  For what. Towhat end?  He would never talk, he was no fool!"Ben waited patiently until she found some composure.  "Peter told me hefound a document, a list of names.  Twenty-three names of high rankingstatesmen and industrialists.  "Companies you've heard of," he said. Hesaid it was an incorporation document, setting up some organization inSwitzerland.""Yes.""You saw the document.""I did.""It seemed genuine to you?""From what I could tell, yes.  All the markings, even the typewriting,looked like papers I've seen from the 1940s.""Where is it now?"She pursed her lips.  "Just before we left Zurich for good, he opened abank account.  He said it was mostly for the vault the bank would renthim.  He wanted to keep papers in it.  I don't know for sure, but I'dguess he must have put it there.""Is it possible he hid it at home, in your cabin?""No," she said quickly, "there is nothing hidden in our cabin."Ben made a mental note of her reaction.  "Did he leave a key to thisvault?""No.""If the account was in his name, wouldn't these, these bad guys haveways of learning about its existence?""That is why he didn't open it in his name.  It's in the name of anattorney.""Do you remember who?""Of course.  My cousin, Dr.  Matthias Deschner.  Actually, he's mysecond cousin.  A distant relative, distant enough that no one wouldconnect him with us--with me.  But he's a good man, a trustworthy man.His office is in Zurich, on St.  Annagasse.""You trust him.""Totally.  I trusted him with our lives, after all.  He never betrayedus; he never would.""If people today, people with influence and power and far-reachingcontacts, are so desperate to get this document, it must be extremelyimportant."  Ben's mind abruptly filled with a horrific image of Peter'scrumpled body gouting blood.  His chest was so tight he couldn'tbreathe.  He thought: Peter was in the way, and they killed him."They must be afraid their names will get out," she said."But which of them can be alive after all these years?""There are also the inheritors.  Powerful men can have powerfulsuccessors.""And some who aren't so powerful.  There must be a weak link somewhere."Ben broke off.  "It's madness, all of this.  The idea that anyone wouldcare about a corporation set up half a century ago--it just soundsinsane!"Liesl laughed, bitterly, without mirth.  "It's all relative, isn't it,this question of what makes sense and what does not.  How much of yourown well-ordered life makes sense any longer?"A week ago, he was spending his days in the "development" department ofHartman Capital Management, cultivating old clients and new prospects,flashing on his charm like high beams.  It was no longer a world hecould inhabit; so much of what he'd grown up knowing was a lie, part ofa larger deception he could scarcely hope to penetrate.  Cavanaugh wasassigned to you, Peter had said.  The Corporation--thisSigma group, whatever it was seemed to have operatives everywhere. Wasthat why his mother had been so insistent that he return to the familyfirm after Peter's death?  Had she believed that he would be saferthere, protected from dangers, from threats, from truths he could onlybegin to fathom?"Did Peter ever learn anything more about this Sigma Corporation? Aboutwhether it had an ongoing existence?"She pushed her hair back nervously, her bracelets jingling.  "We learnedvery little that was concrete.  So much remained conjecture. What webelieve believed is that there are shadowy corporations and privatefortunes that are devoted to erasing their origins.  They're ruthless,these firms, as are the men funded by these companies. They're nottroubled by such details as morality.  Once they learned, somehow, thatPeter had a paper that could reveal their involvement in Sigma, or thatof their fathers maybe expose these complicated corporate arrangementsthat were made during the war once they learned this, they didn'thesitate to kill him.  They will not hesitate to kill you, or me.  Oranyone else who threatens to expose them or stop them, or who simplyknows too much about their existence.  But Peter also came to believethat these individuals had gathered together for larger purposes.  To...orchestrate matters in the world at large.""But when Peter and I spoke, he merely speculated that some of the oldboard members were protecting their own fortunes.""If he had had time, he would have told you more of his theories.""Did he ever talk about our father?"She grimaced.  "Only that he was a hypocrite and a world-class liar,that he was no Holocaust survivor.  That he was actually a member of theSS."  She added sardonically: "Apart from that, of course, Peter lovedhim."He wondered whether the irony didn't conceal a kernel of truth. "Listen,Liesl, I need you to tell me how to get in touch with your cousin, thelawyer.  Deschner ""Matthias Deschner.  But for what?""You know why.  To get the document.""I said, for what?"  She sounded bitter.  "So you can be killed too?""No, Liesl.  I don't plan to be killed.""Then you must have some idea of why you must have this document that Ican't possibly think of.""Maybe so.  I want to expose the killers."He braced himself for an angry barrage, but was surprised when sheanswered quietly, serenely: "You wish to avenge his death.""Yes."Tears sprang to her eyes.  Her mouth was contorted, twisted downward, asif to hold back another spell of weeping.  "Yes," she said.  "If you'lldo it--if you're careful--as careful as you were in coming here--nothingwould make me happier.  Expose them, Ben.  Make them pay."  She pinchedher nose between thumb and forefinger.  "Now I must go home.  I must saygoodbye."She seemed outwardly serene, but Ben could still detect the underlyingfear.  She was a strong and remarkable woman, a rock.  I'll do it for meand for you, too, he thought."Good-bye, Liesl," Ben said, kissing her on the cheek."Good-bye, Ben," Liesl said as he got out of the car.  She looked at himfor a long time.  "Yes, make them pay."CHAPTER TWELVE.Asuncion, ParaguayThe taxi from the airport was a rattling old Volkswagen Beetle, not ascharming as it had first appeared.  It seemed to have no muffler.  Theypassed graceful Spanish colonial mansions before entering the trafficchoked downtown, tree-lined streets crowded with pedestrians, antiqueyellow trolley cars.  There were more Mercedes-Benzes than she'd everseen outside of Germany, many of them, she knew, stolen.  Asuncionseemed frozen in the 1940s.  Time had passed it by.Her hotel downtown was a small, shabby place on Colon.  Her guidebookhad awarded it three stars.  Evidently, the guidebook's author had beenpaid off.  The reception clerk warmed to her considerably when she beganspeaking to him in fluent Spanish.Her room had high ceilings and peeling walls, and, since its windowsopened on to the street, was incredibly loud.  At least she had aprivate bathroom.  But if you wanted to keep a low profile, you didn'tstay where the gringos stayed.She drank an agua con gas from the "honor bar," a minuscule refrigeratorthat barely cooled its contents, then called the number she'd been givenfor the Comisaria Centrico, the main police station.This was no official contact.  Captain Luis Bolgorio was a homicideinvestigator for the Paraguayan policia who had sought the Americangovernment's help by telephone on a few murder cases.  Anna had obtainedhis name, outside channels, from a friend in the FBI. Bolgorio owed theU.S. government a few favors; that was the extent of his loyalty."You are in luck, Miss Navarro," Captain Bolgorio said when they spokeagain.  "The widow has agreed to see you, even though she's inmourning.""Wonderful."  They spoke in Spanish, the language of business; theeveryday language here was Guarani.  "Thanks for your assistance.""She's a wealthy and important lady.  I hope you'll treat her with thegreatest respect.""Of course.  The body ... ?""This isn't my department, but I'll arrange for you to pay a visit tothe police morgue.""Excellent.""The house is on the Avenida Mariscal Lopez.  Can you find your waythere in a taxi, or do you need me to pick you up?""I can get a taxi.""Very well.  I'll have the records with me that you asked for.  Whenshall we meet?"She arranged with the concierge for a cab, then spent the next hourreading through the file on the "victim" though she had difficultythinking of such a criminal as a victim.She knew that the manila file folder Alan Bartlett had provided her wasprobably all the information she was going to get.  Captain Bolgorio washelping only because the occasional technological assistance he got fromthe U.S. government's NCAV bolstered his own success here, made him lookgood.  One hundred percent quid pro quo.  Bolgorio had arranged to haveProsperi's body held in the morgue.According to Bartlett, Paraguay was notoriously uncooperative onextradition cases and had been a popular refuge for war criminals andother international fugitives for decades.  Its odious and corruptdictator, "President for life" General Alfredo Stroessner, had seen toit.  There had been some hope for improvement after Stroessner wastoppled in 1989.  But no.  Paraguay remained unreceptive to extraditionrequests.So it was an ideal place of residence for an aging villain like MarcelProsperi.  A Corsican by birth, Marcel Prosperi essentially ranMarseilles during and after World War II, controlling the heroin,prostitution, and weapons dealings there.  Shortly after the war ended,as the I.C.U file detailed, he escaped to Italy, then Spain, and laterParaguay.  Here, Prosperi set up the South American distribution networkfor heroin out of Marseilles the so-called "French connection"responsible for putting snow-white Marseilles heroin on the streets ofthe United States, in collaboration with the American Mafia drug-kingpinSanto Trafficante, Jr., who controlled much of the heroin traffic intothe U.S. Prosperi's accomplices, Anna knew, included some of Paraguay'shighest officials.  All of this meant that he was a very dangerous man,even after death.In Paraguay, Prosperi maintained a respectable front business theownership of a chain of automobile dealerships.  For the last severalyears, however, he had been bedridden.  Two days ago, he had died.As she dressed for her meeting with the widow Prosperi, Anna mulled overthe details of the Prosperi and Mailhot cases.  Whatever she found outfrom the widow, or from the autopsy, she was willing to bet that MarcelProsperi didn't die of natural causes, either.But whoever was murdering these men was resourceful, well connected,clever.The fact that each of the victims had been in Alan Bartlett's Sigmafiles was significant, but what did it reveal?  Were there others whohad access to the names attached to those files whether in the JusticeDepartment, in the CIA, or in foreign countries?  Had the list somehowbeen leaked?A theory was beginning to emerge.  The killers for there had to be morethan one were probably well financed and had access to goodintelligence.  If they weren't acting on their own, then they'd beenhired by someone with money and power but with what motivation?  And whynow, why so suddenly?Once again, she was back to the question of the list who exactly hadseen it?  Bartlett had spoken of an internal CIA audit, and of thedecision to bring in the I.C.U itself.  That suggested researchers,government officials.  What about the Attorney General himself had heseen it?And there still remained several salient questions.Why were the murders disguised as natural deaths?  Why was it soimportant to keep the fact of the murders secret?And what aboutThe phone rang, yanking her out of her reverie.  The taxi was here.She finished applying her makeup and went downstairs.The taxi, a silver Mercedes probably stolen, too hurtled through thecrowded streets of Asuncion with apparent disregard for the sanctity ofhuman life.  The driver, a handsome man in his late thirties with hisolive complexion nicely set off by his white linen tropical-weightshirt, brown eyes, and close-shaven hair, glanced back at herperiodically as if hoping for eye contact.She pointedly ignored him.  The last thing she needed was some LatinLothario taking an interest in her.  She stared out the window at astreet vendor selling fake Rolexes and Cartiers, holding up his goodsfor her as they stopped at a light.  She shook her head.  Anothervendor, an old woman, was peddling herbs and roots.She hadn't seen a single gringo face since she'd arrived here.  Maybethat was to be expected.  Asuncion was not exactly Paris.  A bus infront of them belched foul-smelling smoke.  There was a burst ofinstrumental music.She noticed the traffic had thinned, the streets were wider, tree-lined.They were on the outskirts of town, it appeared.  She had a city map inher handbag, but didn't want to unfold it if it wasn't necessary.She remembered Captain Bolgorio mentioning that Prosperi's house was onAvenida Mariscal Lopez, which was in the eastern sector on the way backto the airport.  She had traveled down it on the way into town, thestreet with all the beautiful Spanish Colonial mansions.But the streets she saw out the window didn't look at all familiar. Shecertainly hadn't seen this part of town before.She looked up at the driver and said, "Where are we going?"He didn't reply.She said, "Hey, listen to me," as he pulled the car over to the shoulderof a quiet, un trafficked side road.Oh, Jesus.She didn't have a weapon.  Her pistol was locked in her drawer at theoffice.  Her training in martial arts and self-defense would scarcelyThe driver had turned around and was pointing a large black .38 at her."Now we talk," the man said.  "You arrive at the airport from America.You wish to visit the estate of Senor Prosperi.  Do you understand whysome of us might find you interesting?"Anna focused on remaining calm.  Her advantage would have to bepsychological.  The man's one disadvantage was the limits of hisknowledge.  He did not know who she was.  Or did he?"If you are a DBA whore, then I have one set of friends who would enjoyentertaining you ... before your final, unexplained disappearance.  Andyou won't be the first.  If you are an American politico, I have otherfriends who will enjoy engaging you in, let us say, conversation."Anna composed her features into a look of boredom mixed with contempt."You keep speaking of 'friends," " she said, and then hissed in herfluent Spanish: "El muerto al hoyo y le vivo al hollo."  Dead men haveno friends."You do not wish to choose how you will die?  It is the only choice mostof us ever get.""But you will have to choose first.  El que mucho hablen, tnucho yerro.I feel sorry for you, taking on an errand and making such a botch of it.You really don't know who I am, do you?""If you're smart, you'll tell me."She curled her lips in scorn.  "That is the one thing I will not do."She paused.  "Pepito Salazar would not want me to."The driver's expression froze.  "Salazar, you said?"Navarro had mentioned the name of one of the most powerful cocaineexporters of the region, a man whose trading enterprise outstripped eventhat of the Medellin kingpins.Now the man looked suspicious.  "It is easy to invoke the name of astranger.""When I return to the Palaquinto this evening, it is your name I will beinvoking," Anna said provocatively.  The Palaquinto was the name ofSalazar's mountain retreat, a name known only to the few.  "I regret wewere not formally introduced."The man spoke with a tremor in his voice.  To make trouble for apersonal courier of Salazar was more than his life was worth.  "I haveheard stories of the Palaquinto, the faucets of gold, the fountains ofchampagne...""That's only for parties, and if I were you, I wouldn't count on anyinvitations."  Her hand dipped into her small purse for her hotel keys."You must forgive me," the man said urgently.  "My instructions camefrom people with incomplete knowledge.  None of us would dream ofdishonoring any member of Salazar's entourage.""Pepito knows that mistakes will be made."  Anna watched the .38dangling loosely in his right hand, smiled at him encouragingly, andthen, in a swift movement, dug her keys into his wrist.  The jaggedsteel stabbed through flesh and fascia, and the gun dropped into Anna'slap.  As the man howled in agony, she scooped it up in one deft movementand placed the muzzle at the back of his head."La mejor pa labra es la que no se dice," she said through grittedteeth.  The best word is the one that is not said.She ordered the man out of the car, made him walk fifteen paces into thescrubby roadside vegetation, then got into his seat and roared off. Shecould not afford the time, she told herself, to replay the terrifyingencounter; nor could she allow panic to seize her instincts andintellect.  There was work to do.The house that had belonged to Marcel Prosperi was set back from theAvenida Mariscal Lopez.  It was an immense Spanish Colonial mansionsurrounded by extravagantly landscaped property, and it reminded her ofthe old Spanish missions back home in California.  Instead of a simplelawn, though, the expanse of land was terraced with rows of cacti andlush wildflowers, protected by a high wrought-iron fence.She parked the silver Mercedes some distance down the road and walkedtoward the entrance, where a taxicab was idling.  A short, potbelliedman emerged from it and ambled toward her.  He had the dark skin of amestizo, a drooping black bandito mustache, black hair combed straightback with too much hair goo.  His face gleamed with oil or perspiration,and he looked pleased with himself.  His short-sleeved white shirt wastranslucent in places where sweat had soaked through, revealing a mat ofdark chest hair.Captain Bolgorio?Where was his police cruiser?  she wondered as his cab drove away.He approached her, beaming, and enveloped her hand in his two largeclammy ones."Agent Navarro," he said.  "A great pleasure to meet such a beautifulwoman.""Thanks for coming.""Come, Senora Prosperi is not used to being kept waiting.  She is veryrich and very powerful, Agent Navarro, and she is accustomed to gettingher way.  Let's go right in."Bolgorio rang a bell at the front gate and identified themselves. Therewas a buzz, and Bolgorio pushed the gate open.Anna noticed a gardener hunched over a row of wildflowers.  An elderlyfemale servant was walking down a path between ledges of cacti holding atray of empty glasses and open bottles of agua gaseosa."We're all set to go to the morgue after this interview?"  Anna said."As I said, this is really not my department, Agent Navarro.  Amagnificent house, is it not?"  They passed through an archway into coolshade.  Bolgorio rang the doorbell at the side of an ornately carvedblond wooden door."But you can help arrange it?"  Anna asked, just as the door opened.Bolgorio shrugged.  A young woman in a servant's uniform of white blouseand black skirt invited them in.Inside was even cooler, the floor tiled in terra-cotta.  The servant ledthem to a large, open room that was sparely decorated with wovenprimitive rugs and earthenware lamps and pottery.  Only the recessedlighting in the stucco ceiling seemed out of place.They sat on a long, low white sofa and waited.  The maid offered themcoffee or sparkling water, but both of them declined.Finally a woman appeared, tall and thin and graceful.  The widowProsperi.  She looked around seventy but very well taken care of.  Shewas dressed entirely in mourning black, but it was a designer dress:maybe Sonia Rykiel, Anna thought.  She wore a black turban and outsizedJackie Onassis sunglasses.Anna and Bolgorio both rose from the low sofa.Without shaking their hands, she said in Spanish, "I don't see how I canhelp you."Bolgorio stepped forward.  "I am Captain Luis Bolgorio of the policia,"he said with a bow of his head, "and this is Special Agent Anna Navarroof the American Department of Justice.""Consuela Prosperi," she said impatiently."Please accept our deepest condolences on the passing of your husband,"he continued.  "We simply wanted to ask you a few questions, and thenwe'll be on our way.""Is there some sort of problem?  My husband was sick for a long time,you know.  When he finally passed away it was surely a great relief forhim."Not to mention for you, too, Anna thought.  "We have information," shesaid, "indicating that your husband may have been killed."Consuela Prosperi looked unimpressed.  "Please sit down," she said. Theydid, and she sat in a white chair facing them.  Consuela Prosperi hadthe unnaturally tight skin of a woman who has had too many facelifts.Her makeup was too orange, her lipstick glossy brown."Marcel was ill for the last several years of his life.  He was confinedto bed.  He was in extremely poor health.""I understand," Anna said.  "Did your husband have enemies?"The widow turned to her with an imperious glance.  "Why would he haveenemies?""Senora Prosper!"  we know all about your husband's past endeavors."Her eyes flashed.  "I am his third wife," she said.  "And we did notspeak of his business affairs.  My own interests lie elsewhere."This woman could hardly be ignorant of her husband's reputation, Annaknew.  She also did not seem to be much in mourning."Did Senor Prosper!  have any regular visitors?"The widow hesitated but an instant.  "Not while we were married.""And no conflicts that you know about with his international 'trading'partners?"The widow's thin lips compressed, revealing a row of vertical age lines."Agent Navarro means no disrespect," Bolgorio put in hastily.  "What shemeans to say is ""I'm quite aware of what she means to say," Consuela Prosperi snapped.Anna shrugged.  "There must have been many people over the years whowanted your husband apprehended, arrested, even killed.  Rivals.Contenders for territory.  Disgruntled business partners.  You know thatas well as I."The widow offered no response.  Anna noticed her thick orange pancakemakeup cracking over her sun-lined face."There are also people who sometimes provide early warnings," Anna wenton.  "Intelligence.  Security.  Do you know if anyone ever contacted himto warn him of any possible threats?""In the nineteen years we were married," Consuela Prosperi said, turningaway, "I never heard anything of this.""Did he ever express to you the fear that people were after him?""My husband was a private man.  He was an absentee owner of hisautomobile dealerships.  He never liked to go out.  Whereas I enjoygoing out quite a bit.""Yes, but did he say he was afraid to go out?""He didn't enjoy going out," she corrected.  "He preferred to stay inand read his biographies and histories."For some reason, Ramon's muttered words ran through her head.  El diablosabe mas par viejo que par diablo.  The devil knows more because he isold than because he is the devil.Anna tried a different tack.  "You seem to have very good securityhere."The widow smirked.  "You do not know Asuncion, do you?""There is great poverty and crime here, Agent Navarro," Captain Bolgoriosaid, turning to her with outspread hands.  "People of the Prosperisimeans must always take precautions.""Did your husband have any visitors at all in the last few weeks of hislife?"  Anna went on, ignoring him."No, my friends came over quite a bit, but none of them ever wentupstairs to see him.  He really had no friends in the last years.  Hesaw only me and his nurses."Anna looked up suddenly.  "Who supplied his nurses?""A nursing agency.""Did they rotate--did the same ones come regularly?""There was a day nurse and an evening nurse, and yes, always the sameones.  They took very good care of him."Anna chewed at the inside of her lower lip.  "I'm going to have toexamine certain of your household records."The widow turned to Bolgorio with an expression of indignation.  "Idon't have to put up with this, do I?  This is a grotesque invasion ofmy privacy."Bolgorio tented his hands as if in supplication.  "Please, Senora Prosperi, her only interest is to determine whether there was anypossibility of homicide.""Homicide?  My husband's heart finally gave out.""If we must, we can obtain them at the bank," Anna said.  "But it wouldbe so much simpler if--"Consuela Prosper!  got up and suddenly stared at Anna, nostrils flared,as if the American were a rodent that had made its way into her house.Bolgorio spoke in a low voice.  "People like her, they do not tolerateinvasions of their privacy.""Senora Prosperi, you say there were two nurses," Anna said, soldieringon.  "Were they very reliable?""Very.""But were they never sick or absent?""Oh, from time to time, of course.  Or they would ask for a night offwhen there was a holiday.  Ano Nuevo, Dta de los Trabajadores, Carnaval,that sort of thing.  But they were very responsible, and the agency wasgood about bringing in replacements without my ever having to worry.And the replacements were every bit as well trained as the regularnurses.  Even on Marcel's last night, the substitute nurse dideverything she could to try to save him--"Substitute nurse.  She sat upright, suddenly alert.  "There was asubstitute nurse on the night he died?""Yes, but as I said, she was as well trained--""Had you ever seen her before?""No ...""Can you give me the name and phone number of the nursing agency?""Of course, but if you're implying that this nurse killed Marcel, you'rebeing foolish.  He was ill."Anna's pulse quickened.  "Can you call this agency?"  she askedBolgorio.  "And I'd like to go to the morgue right now--could you pleasecall ahead and arrange to have the body prepared for us.""The body!"  Consuela Prosper!  said, alarmed, rising to her feet."My deepest apologies if we must delay the funeral," Anna said.  "We'dlike your permission to do an autopsy.  We can always get a court order,but it would be simpler and faster if you'd give us permission. I canguarantee you, if you're having an open-casket service, no one will everbe able to tell--""What are you talking about?"  the widow said, genuinely puzzled.  Shewalked to the immense fireplace and lifted an ornate silver urn from themantel.  "I just received my husband's ashes a few hours ago."CHAPTER THIRTEEN.Washington, D.C.Justice Miriam Bateman of the United States Supreme Court got up withgreat effort from her massive mahogany partners' desk to greet hervisitor.  Leaning on her gold-handled cane, she made her way around thedesk and, smiling warmly despite the great pain from her rheumatoidarthritis, took her visitor's hand."How nice to see you, Ron," she said.Her visitor, a tall black man in his late fifties, leaned over to givethe diminutive Justice a peck on the cheek.  "You look wonderful asalways," he said in his deep, clear baritone, his enunciation precise."Oh, rubbish."  Justice Bateman hobbled over to a high-backed wing chairby the fireplace, and he took the matching one next to her.Her visitor was one of Washington's most influential private citizens, awidely respected, extraordinarily well-connected attorney in privatepractice who had never held a government job, yet had been a confidantof every President, Democrat and Republican, since Lyndon Johnson.Ronald Evers, famous, too, for his splendid wardrobe, was wearing abeautiful charcoal pin-striped suit and a subdued maroon tie."Madame Justice, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.""For God's sake, Ron, it's Miriam.  How long have we known each other?"He smiled.  "I believe it's thirty-five years ... Miriam, give or take adecade.  But I still keep wanting to call you Professor Bateman."Evers had been one of Miriam Bateman's star students at Yale Law School,and he had been instrumental behind the scenes in getting JusticeBateman nominated to the High Court some fifteen years earlier. Hehunched forward in his chair.  "You're a busy lady, and the Court's insession, so let me get right to the point.  The President has asked meto sound you out on something that must not leave this room, somethinghe's been giving a lot of thought to.  Please understand, this is highlypreliminary."Justice Bateman's piercing blue eyes radiated keen intelligence behindthe thick lenses of her eyeglasses.  "He wants me to step down," shesaid somberly.Her directness caught her visitor unprepared.  "He has enormous respectfor your judgment and instincts, and he'd like you to recommend yoursuccessor.  The President hasn't much more than a year left in office,and wants to make sure the next Supreme Court vacancy isn't filled bythe other party, which looks awfully likely at this point."Justice Bateman replied quietly, "And what makes the President think myseat's going to be vacant any time soon?"Ronald Evers bowed his head, his eyes closed as if in prayer or deepcontemplation.  "This is a delicate matter," he said gently, like apriest in a confessional, "but we've always spoken openly with oneanother.  You're one of the finest Supreme Court Justices this nationhas ever seen, and I have no doubt you'll be mentioned in the samebreath as Brandeis or Frankfurter.  But I know you'll want to preserveyour legacy, and so you have to ask yourself a very hard question: howmany more years do you have left?"  He lifted his head, and lookeddirectly into her eyes.  "Remember, Brandeis and Cardozo and Holmes alloutstayed their welcome.  They lingered at the Court well past the timewhen they could do their best work."Justice Bateman's gaze was unyielding.  "Can I get you some coffee?" sheasked unexpectedly.  Then, lowering her voice conspiratorially, shesaid, "I've got a Sachertorte I've just brought back from Demel's inVienna, and the doctors tell me I really shouldn't have any."Evers patted his flat midriff.  "I'm trying to be good.  But thank you.""Then let me return bluntness with bluntness.  I'm familiar with thereputation of just about every judge with any stature in every circuitin the country.  And I have no doubt the President will find someonehighly qualified, extremely bright, a legal scholar of range andbreadth.  But I want to let you in on something.  The Supreme Court's aplace that takes years to learn.  One can't simply show up and expect toexert any influence.  There's simply no substitute for seniority, forlength of service.  If there's one lesson I've learned here, it's thepower of experience.  That's where real wisdom comes from."Her guest was prepared for this argument.  "And there's no one on theCourt as wise as you are.  But your health is failing.  You're notgetting any younger."  He smiled sadly.  "None of us is.  It's aterrible thing to say, I know, but there's just no way around it.""Oh, I don't plan to keel over any time soon," she said, a glint in hereye.  The telephone beside her chair suddenly rang, startling both ofthem.  She picked it up.  "Yes?""I'm sorry to disturb you," came the voice of her longtime secretary,Pamela, "but it's a Mr.  Holland.  You asked me to put him right throughwhenever he calls.""I'll take it in my hideaway office."  She put down the phone and stoodwith difficulty.  "Will you excuse me for a moment, Ron?""I can wait outside," Evers said, getting to his feet and helping herup."Don't be silly.  Stay right here.  And if you change your mind aboutthat Sachertorte, Pamela's right outside."Justice Bateman closed the door to the study and laboriously made herway to her favorite chair.  "Mr.  Holland.""Madame Justice, forgive this intrusion," said the voice on the phone,"but a difficulty has arisen that I thought you might be able to help uswith."She listened for a few moments and then said, "I can make a call.""Only if it's not too great an inconvenience," said the man.  "I wouldcertainly never disturb you if it weren't extremely important.""Not at all.  None of us wants this.  Certainly not at this time."She listened as he spoke some more, then said, "Well, we all trust youto do the right thing."Another pause, and she added, "I'll see you very soon," and then hungup.ZurichAn icy wind blew down the Limmatquai, the quay on the banks of theLimmat River.  The Limmat cuts through the heart of Zurich before itflows into the Zurichsee, splitting the city into two distinct halves,one the Zurich of high finance and high-priced shopping, the other theAlt stadt, the quaint medieval Old Town.  The river twinkled in the softearly morning sunlight.  It wasn't even six in the morning, but alreadypeople were striding to work, armed with briefcases and umbrellas.  Thesky was cloudy and overcast, though rain didn't appear imminent.  Butthe Zurichers knew better.Ben advanced tensely along the promenade, past the thirteenth centuryZunfthausen, the old guild halls with their leaded-glass windows, thatnow housed elegant restaurants.  At Marktgasse he turned left, headinginto the warren of narrow cobbled streets that was the Old Town.  Aftera few minutes he found Trittligasse, a street lined with medieval stonebuildings, some of which had been converted into dwellings.Number 73 was an ancient stone townhouse that was now an apartmentbuilding.  A small brass frame mounted beside the front door held onlysix names, white letters embossed in black plastic rectangles.One of them was M. DESCHNER.He kept walking without slowing down, careful to evince no particularinterest.  Perhaps it was baseless paranoia, but if there was any chancethat spotters for the Corporation were keeping a lookout for him, he didnot want to jeopardize Liesl's cousin by simply arriving at the door.The appearance of a strange visitor by itself might arouse curiosity.However remote the possibility that watchers were in place, rudimentaryprecautions would have to be taken.An hour later, a deliveryman in the distinctive orange and black uniformof Blumchengallerie rang the bell of Number 73 Trittligasse. TheBlumchengallerie was Zurich's most upscale florist chain, and itscolorfully clad de liverymen were not an uncommon sight in the city'swealthiest neighborhoods.  The man held a sizable bouquet of whiteroses.  The roses did, in fact, come from the Blumchengallerie; theuniform from the charity bazaar of a Catholic parish across town.After a few minutes, the man rang again.  This time a voice crackled outof the speaker: "Yes?""It's Peter Hartman."A long pause.  "Again, please?""Peter Hartman."An even longer silence.  "Come to the third floor, Peter."With a buzz, the front door lock released, and he found himself in adark foyer.  Depositing the flowers on a marble side table, he climbedthe worn stone stairs, which rose steeply through the gloom.Liesl had given him Matthias Deschner's home and office addresses andphone numbers.  Instead of calling the lawyer at his place of work,however, Ben had decided instead to appear unannounced at his home,early enough so that the attorney presumably wouldn't have left for theoffice.  The Swiss, he knew, are supremely regular in their businesshours, which usually begin between nine and ten.  Deschner would surelybe no different.Liesl had said she trusted him--"totally," she said--but he could notassume anything anymore.  Therefore he had insisted that Liesl not callahead to introduce him.  Ben preferred to surprise the attorney, catchhim off guard, observe his genuine, unrehearsed first reaction tomeeting a man he believed to be Peter Hartman--or would Deschner alreadyknow of Peter's murder?The door opened.  Matthias Deschner stood before him in a green plaidbathrobe.  He was small, with a pale craggy face, thick wire-rimmedglasses, reddish hair that frizzed out at the temples.  Age fifty, Bensupposed.His eyes were wide with surprise.  "Good God," he exclaimed.  "Why areyou dressed this way?  But don't stand there--come in, come in."  Heclosed the door behind Ben and said, "May I offer you coffee?""Thank you.""What are you doing here?"  Deschner whispered.  "Is Liesl--?""I'm not Peter.  I'm his brother, Ben.""You--what?  His brother?  Oh, my God!"  he gasped.  Deschner pivotedaround and stared at Ben with sudden dread.  "They found him, didn'tthey?""Peter was killed a few days ago.""Oh, Lord," he breathed.  "Oh, Lord.  They found him!  He was always soafraid it would happen someday."  Deschner stopped suddenly, a look ofterror striking his face.  "Liesl--""Liesl's unharmed.""Thank God."  He turned to Ben.  "I mean, what am I saying--""That's all right.  I understand.  She's your blood relative."Deschner stood before a small breakfast table and poured Ben a china cupof coffee.  "How did this happen?"  he asked gravely.  "Tell me, forGod's sake!""Surely the bank where you had a meeting the morning of the Bahnhofstrasse incident was the tripwire," Deschner said.  The two of themfaced each other intently across the table.  Ben had peeled off thebaggy orange and black uniform to reveal his ordinary street clothes."The Union Bank of Switzerland is a merger of several older banks. Maybethere was an old, sensitive account that was flagged, being watched.Perhaps by one of the parties you met with.  An assistant, a clerk.  Aninformer who'd been given a watch list.""Placed there by this corporation Liesl and Peter were talking about, orone of its offshoots?""Quite possibly.  All of the giant firms have long-standing, cozyrelationships with the important Swiss banks.  The complete list offounders will give us the names of suspects.""Did Peter show you the list?""No.  At first he didn't even tell me why he wanted to open an account.All I knew was that the account was monetarily insignificant.  What hewas really interested in was the vault that came with it.  To keep somedocuments, he said.  Do you mind if I smoke?""It's your house.""Well, you know, you Americans are such fascists about smoking, ifyou'll pardon the expression."Ben smiled.  "Not everyone."Deschner pulled a cigarette from the pack of Rothmans next to hisbreakfast plate, lit it with a cheap plastic lighter.  "Peter insistedthat the account not be in his name.  He was afraid correctly, as itturned out that his enemies might have contacts in the banks.  He wantedto open it under a false name, but that's no longer possible. The bankshave tightened up here.  A lot of pressure from the outside, mostlyAmerica.  Back in the seventies our banks started demanding a passportwhen you opened an account.  You used to be able to open an account bymail.  No more.""So did he have to open it under his real name?""No.  In my name.  I'm the account holder, but Peter was what they callthe 'beneficial owner."  " He exhaled a plume of smoke.  "We had to goin together to open the account, but Peter's name appeared on one formonly, known only to the account adviser.  The Establishment of theBeneficial Owner's Identity, it's called.  This form is kept locked awayin the files."  In another room a telephone rang."Which bank?""I chose the Handelsbank Schweiz AG because it's small and discreet.I've had clients who've happily done business with the Handelsbank,clients whose money is, shall we say, not entirely clean.""So does this mean you can get into Peter's vault for me?""I'm afraid not.  You'll have to accompany me.  As the specifiedbeneficiary and heir of the beneficial owner.""If it's at all possible," Ben said, "I'd like to go to the bankstraightaway."  He remembered Schmid's icy warnings that he was not toreturn warnings that if he violated that agreement, he would be personanon grata, subject to immediate arrest.The phone kept ringing.  Deschner crushed out his cigarette in a saucer."Very well.  If you don't mind, I'd like to answer that phone. Then Imust make a call or two, reschedule my nine-thirty appointment."He went into an adjoining room, his study, and returned a few minuteslater.  "All right then, no problem.  I was able to reschedule.""Thank you.""Certainly.  The account adviser that's the banker, a senior vicepresident of the bank, Bernard Suchet has all the relevant papers.  Hehas a photocopy of Peter's passport on file.  They believe he has beendead for four years.  So far as anyone knows, the recent... tragedy hasnot been reported.  Your own identity will be easy to establish.""My arrival in this country came through somewhat irregular means," Bensaid, choosing his words carefully.  "My legal presence here cannot beverified through the normal passport, customs, and immigration systems.What happens if they alert the authorities?""Let's not think of all that can go wrong.  Now, if I may finishdressing, we're in business.  Then let us go at once."CHAPTER FOURTEEN.Anna whirled around to Captain Bolgorio.  "What?  The body was cremated?We had an agreement, dammit...!"The Paraguayan detective shrugged, hands spread, eyes wide with apparentconcern.  "Agent Navarro, please, let us discuss these things later, notin front of the bereaved--"Ignoring him, Anna turned back to the widow.  "Were you told there wouldbe an autopsy?"  she demanded."Don't raise your voice to me," Consuela Prosperi snapped.  "I'm not acriminal."Anna looked at Bolgorio, livid.  "Did you know her husband's body wasgoing to be cremated?"  Of course he knew, the bastard."Agent Navarro, I told you, this is not my department.""But did you know this or not?""I have heard things.  But I am a low man on the totem pole, pleaseunderstand.""Are we finished here?"  Consuela Prosperi asked."Not yet," Anna said.  "Were you pressured into a cremation?"  shedemanded of the widow.The widow said to Bolgorio.  "Captain, please remove her from my house.""My apologies, madame," Bolgorio said.  "Agent Navarro, we must go now.""We're not finished here," Anna said calmly.  "You were pressured,weren't you?"  She addressed Senora Prosperi.  "What were you told-thatyour assets would be frozen, locked up, made inaccessible to you, unlessyou went along with this?  Something like that?""Remove her from my house, Captain!"  the widow commanded, raising hervoice."Please, Agent Navarro--""Senora," Anna said, "let me tell you something.  I happen to know thata significant portion of your assets is invested in hedge funds andother investment partnerships and equities in the U.S. and abroad. TheU.S. government has the power to seize those assets if it suspects youof being part of an international criminal conspiracy."  She stood andwalked toward the door.  "I'm getting on the phone to Washington rightnow, and that's precisely what I'm going to order."From behind her, she heard the widow cry out, "She can't do this, canshe?  You assured me my money was safe if I--""Keep quiet!"  the homicide detective barked suddenly.  Startled, Annaturned back, and saw Bolgorio standing face to face with the widow. Hisobsequiousness had vanished.  "I'll handle this."He strode toward Anna and grabbed her arm.Outside the front gates of the Prosperi estate, Anna demanded, "What areyou covering up?""You'd be wise to leave things alone here," Bolgorio said.  There wasmalevolence in his voice now, a gleaming assured ness she hadn't seenbefore.  "You're a visitor here.  You are not in your own country.""How was it done?  Were morgue orders 'lost' or 'misfiled'?  Did someonepay you off, is that how it happened?""What do you know of the way things work in Paraguay?"  Bolgorio said,moving uncomfortably close to her.  She could feel his hot breath, thespray of spittle.  "There are many things you don't understand.""You knew the body had been destroyed.  From the moment I called you, Ihad a feeling.  You knew there was no body waiting for me in the morgue.Just tell me this: were you ordered, or were you paid?  Where did therequest come from--from outside the government, or from above?"Bolgorio, unfazed, said nothing."Who ordered the body destroyed?""I like you, Agent Navarro.  You're an attractive woman.  I do not wantanything to happen to you."He intended to frighten her, and unfortunately it was working.  But shegave him only a blank look.  "That's not a very subtle threat.""This is not a threat.  I truly don't want anything to happen to you.You need to listen to me, and then leave the country at once.  There arepeople high up in our government who protect the Prosperis and otherslike them.  Money changes hands, a great deal of it.  You'll accomplishnothing by putting your own life in peril."Oh, she thought, you don't know who you're dealing with.  Threatening methat way is like waving a red flag at a bull."Did you order the cremation personally?""It happened, that's all I know.  I told you, I'm not a powerful man.""Then someone must know that Prosperi's death wasn't natural.  Why elsewould they destroy the evidence?""You are asking me questions I don't know the answer to," he saidcalmly.  "Please, Agent Navarro.  Please take care of your own safety.There are people here who prefer to keep things quiet.""Do you think they these 'people who prefer to keep things quiet' hadProsperi killed and didn't want that revealed?"Bolgorio looked away, as if in contemplation.  "I'll deny I ever toldyou this.  I called the nursing agency before you got here.  When I knewyou were investigating Prosperi's death.  That seemed to me the obviousplace to ask questions.""And?""The substitute nurse the one who was with Prosperi the night he diedshe has vanished."She felt her stomach plummet.  I knew it was too easy, she thought."How did this nurse come to the agency?""She came with excellent credentials, they said.  Her references checkedout.  She said she lived within walking distance of here, and if theyhad any assignments nearby... She did three different assignments, allin this area, and all very well.  Suddenly, the regular night nurseassigned to Prosperi fell ill, and the substitute was available, and...""They have no way to reach her?""As I said, she disappeared.""But her paychecks, her bank account ""She was paid in cash.  Not unusual in this country.  Her home addresswas false.  When we looked closely, everything about her was false.  Itwas as if she had been created just for this occasion, like some stageset.  And when the job had been accomplished, the set was struck.""Sounds like a professional backstopping job.  I want to talk to thenursing agency.""You'll learn nothing.  And I will not help you do that.  I've alreadytold you too much.  Please, leave at once.  There are so many ways foran overly inquisitive foreigner to be killed here.  Especially when verypowerful people do not want things uncovered.  Please--go."She knew he was completely serious.  This wasn't just a threat.  She wasmore stubborn than anyone she knew, and she hated giving up.  Butsometimes you just have to move on, she told herself.  Sometimes themost important thing is just to stay alive.ZurichBy the time Ben Hartman and Matthias Deschner were walking down theLdwenstrasse, it had begun to drizzle.  The sky was steel gray.  Thelinden trees that lined the street rustled in the wind.  A steeple clockstruck the hour of nine o'clock in a melodious chime.  Trams passed bydown the middle of the street--the 6, the 13, the 11--each stopping witha squeal.  FedEx trucks seemed to be everywhere: Zurich was a worldbanking capital, Ben knew, and banking was a time-sensitive business.Bankers hurried to work beneath umbrellas.  A couple of Japanese girls,tourists, giggled.  Unpainted wooden benches sat unoccupied beneath thelindens.It drizzled, it stopped, it drizzled again.  They came to a busycrosswalk where Lagerstrasse crossed the Lbwenstrasse.  A building thathoused the Societe de Banque Suisse stood empty, undergoing constructionor renovation.A pair of stylishly unshaven Italian men in identical black leatherjackets passed by, both smoking.  Then a matron wafting Shalimar.On the next block Deschner, who was wearing an ill-fitting blackraincoat over an ugly checked jacket, stopped at a white stone building,resembling a townhouse, on the front of which was mounted a small brassplaque.  Engraved on it in graceful script were the wordsHAND ELSBANK SCHWEIZ AG.Deschner pulled open the heavy glass door.Directly across the street, someone with the slender build of anadolescent was sitting at a cafe, under a red Coca-Cola parasol.  He waswearing khaki cargo pants, a blue nylon backpack, and an ME SolaarT-shirt, and he was drinking an Orangina from the bottle.  With languidmovements he flipped through a copy of a music magazine while speakingon a cell phone.  From time to time he glanced at the entrance to thebank across the street.A set of glass doors slid open electronically.  They stood for a momentbetween thick doors, and then with a low buzz, the next set slid open.The lobby of the Handelsbank was a large marble-floored chamber,completely empty except for a sleek black desk at the far end.  A womansat behind it, wearing a tiny wireless telephone headset, speakingquietly.  She looked up as they entered."Guten morgen," she said.  "Kann which Ihnen helfen?""Ja, gut en morgen, Wir ha ben eine Verabredung mit Dr.  Suchet.""Sehr gut, mein Herr.  Einen Moment."  She spoke softly into hermouthpiece.  "Er wird gleich un ten sein, um She zu se hen"You will like Bernard Suchet, I think," Deschner said.  "He's a verygood sort, a banker of the old school.  Not one of thesehustle-and-bustle young men in a hurry you see so much of in Zurichthese days."At this point, Ben thought, / don't care if he's Charles Manson.A steel elevator pinged and slid open, and a round-shouldered large manin a tweed jacket strode up to them and shook hands first with Deschner,then with Ben.  " s freut which Dich wiederzusehen, Matthias," heexclaimed, and then, turning to Ben, "I am very pleased to make youracquaintance, Mr.  Hartman.  Please, come with me."They rode up together in the elevator.  There was a camera fens mounteddiscreetly on the ceiling.  Suchet wore a permanent pleasant face.  Hehad heavy rectangular-framed glasses, a double chin, and a largepotbelly.  His shirt was monogrammed with his initials on the pocket. Apocket square in his jacket matched his tie.  A senior officer, Benthought.  Tweed jacket, not a banker's suit: he's above such things asdress code.Ben watched him closely, waiting for any signs of suspicion.  But Suchetseemed all business as usual.The elevator opened on a waiting area covered in a wall-to-wall oatmealdeep-pile rug and furnished with antiques, not reproductions.  Theymoved through the waiting area to a door, where Suchet inserted a badgethat he wore on a chain around his neck, into an electronic card-reader.Suchet's office was just down the hall, a spacious, light-flooded room.A computer was the only object on his long glass-topped desk.  He satbehind it, while Deschner and Ben sat across from him.  A middle-agedwoman entered with two espressos and two glasses of water on a silvertray and set them down on the desk before the two visitors.  Then ayoung male came in and handed Dr.  Suchet a file.Suchet opened it.  "You are Benjamin Hartman, of course," he asked,moving his owlish gaze from the file to Ben.Ben nodded, his stomach tightening."We have been provided with ancillary documentation certifying that youare the sole heir to the 'beneficial owner' of this account.  And youaffirm that you are, correct?""That's correct.""Legally I am satisfied with your documentation.  And visually--well, itis clear you are indeed Peter Hartman's twin brother."  He smiled. "Sowhat can I do for you this morning, Mr.  Hartman?"The Handelsbank's vaults were located in the basement of the building, afluorescent-lit, low-ceilinged area that was nowhere near as sleek andmodern as the upstairs.  There were several numbered doors off a narrowcorridor, presumably room-sized vaults.  Several larger alcoves off thehallway appeared from a distance to be lined with brass, which uponcloser inspection Ben saw were safe-deposit boxes of various sizes.At the entrance to an alcove numbered 18C, Dr.  Suchet stopped andhanded Ben a key.  He did not indicate which of the hundreds of vaultsin this area was Peter's.  "I assume you would like privacy," he said."Herr Deschner and I shall leave you now.  You can call me on this phonehere"--he indicated a white phone on a steel table in the center of theroom--"when you are finished."Ben looked at the rows upon rows of vaults, and didn't know what to do.Was this a test of some sort?  Or did Suchet merely assume that Benwould know the number of his vault?  Ben glanced at Deschner, who seemedto sense his discomfort but, curiously, said nothing.  Then Ben lookedagain at the key and saw a number embossed on it.  Of course. Theobvious place."Thank you," he said.  "I'm all set."The two Swiss left, chatting.  Ben noticed a surveillance camera mountedhigh in the room, where the ceiling met the wall.  Its red lightHe located vault 322, a small box at about eye level, and turned the keyto open it.Oh, God, he thought, heart thrumming, what could be in here?  Peter,what did you hide here that was worth your life?Inside was what looked like an envelope made of stiff wax paper.  Hepulled it out the document inside was dismayingly thin and opened it.There was only one item inside, and it was not & piece of paper.It was a photograph, measuring about five inches by seven.It took his breath away.It showed a group of men, a few in Nazi uniforms, some in 1940s suitswith overcoats.  A number of them were immediately recognizable.Giovanni Vignelli, the great Italian industrialist out of Turin,automotive magnate, his massive plants supplying the Italian military,diesel engines, railroad cars, airplanes.  The head of Royal DutchPetroleum, Sir Han Detwiler, a xenophobic Dutchman.  The legendaryfounder of the first, and greatest, American airline.  There were facesthat he could not identify but had seen in the history books.  A few ofthe men wore mustaches.  Including the handsome, dark-haired young manstanding next to an arrogant Nazi official with pale eyes who lookedfamiliar to Ben, though he knew little of German history.No, please, not him.The Nazi, whose face he'd seen before, he could not identify.The handsome young man was unquestionably his father.Max Hartman.A typewritten caption on the white border at the bottom of thephotograph read: zurich, 1945.  sigma ag.He returned the photograph to the envelope and slipped it into hisbreast pocket.  Felt it burn against his chest.There could no longer be any doubt that his father had lied to him, hadlied all his adult life.  His head reeled.  Abruptly a voice penetratedBen's stupor."Mr.  Hartman!  Mr.  Benjamin Hartman.  There is a warrant for yourarrest!  We must take you into custody."Oh, Jesus.It was the banker, Bernard Suchet, speaking.  He must have contacted thelocal authorities.  A swift search of the country's arrival recordswould reveal that he had no documented arrival.  Schmid's chill,understated words returned to him: /// ever find out you've returnedhere, things will not go well for you.Suchet was flanked by Matthias Deschner and two security guards, theirweapons drawn."Mr.  Hartman, the Kantonspolizei have informed me that you are in thiscountry illegally.  Which means that you are perpetrating a fraud," thebanker said.  Deschner's face was a mask of neutrality."What are you talking about?"  Ben said indignantly.  Had they seen himslip the photo into his jacket?"We are to detain you until the authorities arrive, momentarily."Ben stared at him, speechless."Your actions put you in violation of the Swiss Federal Criminal Code,"Suchet continued loudly.  "You seem to be implicated in other offensesas well.  You will not be permitted to leave except in the custody ofthe police."Deschner was silent.  In his eyes Ben could see what appeared to befear.  Why was he saying nothing?"Guards, please escort Mr.  Hartman to Secure Room Number 4. Mr.Hartman, you will take nothing with you.  You are hereby detainedawaiting official arrest."The guards approached, weapons still pointed at him.Ben got to his feet, his hands open at his side, and began walking downthe corridor, the two guards falling in beside him.  As he passedDeschner, he saw the attorney give the tiniest shrug of his shoulders.Peter's words of caution: They practically own half the cops.  Schmid'swords of menace: the Einwanderungsbehbrde can hold you in administrativedetention for a year before your case reaches a magistrate.He couldn't allow himself to be taken in.  What galvanized him wasn'tthe chance that he would be killed or locked up, but the fact that ineither case his investigations would come to an end.  Peter's effortswould have been in vain.  The Corporation would have won.He couldn't let that happen.  Whatever the price.Secure Rooms, die Stahlkammern, were, Ben knew, where items of intrinsicvalue--gold, gemstones, bearer bonds--were displayed and assessedwhenever an owner requested an official audit of his stored possessions.Though lacking vault-like impregnability, they were indeed secure, withreinforced steel doors and closed-circuit surveillance systems.  At theentrance of Zimmer Vier, one of the guards waved an electronic reader bya blinking red light; when the door unlocked, he gestured Ben to enterfirst, and the two guards followed him.  Then the door closed with aseries of three audible clicks.Ben looked around him.  The room was brightly lit and sparely furnished;it would be difficult to lose, or hide, a single gemstone in this space.The slate-tiled floor was polished to a dark sheen.  There was a longtable of perfectly clear Plexiglas, and six folding chairs of graypainted metal.One of the guards burly and overweight, his red, fleshy face suggestinga steady diet of beef and beer gestured for Ben to sit down on a chair.Ben paused before complying.  The two guards had reholstered theirsidearms, but made it abundantly clear that they wouldn't hesitate touse cruder physical means if he were less than cooperative."And so we wait, ja?"  said the second guard, in heavily accentedEnglish.  The man, his light brown hair brush cut, was leaner and, Benjudged, probably much faster than his cohort.  Doubtless mentallyswifter as well.Ben turned to him.  "How much do they pay you here?  I'm a very richman, you know.  I can give you a very nice life if I choose.  You do mea favor, I'll do you one."  He made no effort to disguise his nakeddesperation; they would either respond or they would not.The leaner guard snorted and shook his head.  "You should speak yourproposal louder, to be sure that the microphones pick it up."They had no reason to believe that Ben would be good for his word, andthere were no assurances he could make, while in captivity, to persuadethem otherwise.  Still, their amused contempt was encouraging: his bestchance now was to be underestimated.  Ben stood up, groaning, andclutched his midriff."Sit down," the guard commanded firmly."The claustrophobia ... I can't take the ... small, enclosed places!"Ben spoke in a tone that was increasingly frantic, verging on hysteria.Both guards looked at each other and laughed scornfully they would notbe taken in by such an obvious ploy."No, no, I'm serious," Ben said with growing urgency.  "My God!  Howexplicit do I have to be?  I have a... a nervous stomach.  I have to getto a bathroom immediately or I'll... have an accident."  He was playingthe role of the flighty, flaky American to the hilt.  "Stress brings iton much more quickly!  I need my pills.  Dammit!  My Valium!  Asedative. I have terrible claustrophobia--I can't be in enclosed spaces.Please!" As he spoke he started to gesticulate wildly, as if having apanic attack.The lean guard just regarded him with an amused contemptuous half smile."You will have to take it up with the prison infirmary."With a manic, stricken expression, Ben stepped closer to him, his gazeflicking toward the holstered gun and then back at the lean man's face."Please, you don't understand!"  He waved his hands even more wildly."I'll have a panic attack!  I need to go to the bathroom!  I need atranquilizer!"  With lightning speed, he thrust both hands into theguard's hip holster and retrieved the short-barreled revolver.  Then hetook two steps back, holding the piece in his hands, his performanceabruptly over."Keep your hands at shoulder level," he told the thickly built guard."Or I fire, and you both die."The two guards exchanged glances."Now one of you will take me out of this place.  Or both of you willdie.  It's a good deal.  Take it before the offer expires."The guards conferred briefly in Schweitzerdeutsch.  Then the lean onespoke.  "It would be extremely stupid of you to use this gun, if youeven know how, which I doubt.  You will be imprisoned for the rest ofyour life."It was the wrong tone: wary, alarmed, yet without terror.  The guard wasnot at all unnerved.  Perhaps Ben's earlier performance of weakness hadbeen too effective.  Ben could see that a measure of skepticism remainedin their expressions and posture.  At once, he knew what he must say."You think I wouldn't fire this gun?"  Ben spoke in a bored voice, onlyhis eyes blazing.  "I killed five at the Bahnhofplatz.  Two more won'tweigh on my mind."The guards suddenly grew rigid, all condescension having instantlyevaporated.  "Das Monster vom Bahnhofplatz," the fleshy one saidhoarsely to his partner as a look of horror crossed his face.  The blooddrained from his florid complexion."You!"  Ben barked at him, seizing the advantage.  "Take me out ofhere."  Within seconds, the thickset guard used his electronic reader toopen the door.  "And if you want to live, you'll stay behind," he toldthe leaner, evidently cleverer one.  The door closed behind him, thethree muffled clicks verifying that the bolts had electronically slidinto place.Frog-marching the guard in front of him, Ben traveled swiftly down thebeige-carpeted corridor.  The feed from the closed-circuit videoprobably went into archival storage and examination, rather than beingviewed in real time, but there was no way to be certain."What's your name?"  Ben demanded.  "Wie heissen She?""Laemmel," the guard grunted.  "Christoph Laemmel."  He reached the endof the corridor and started to turn left."No," Ben hissed.  "Not that way!  We're not going out the front.  Takeme out the back way.  The service entrance.  Where the trash is takenout."Laemmel paused in momentary confusion.  Ben placed the revolver near oneof his beet-red ears, letting him feel the cold metal.  Moving morequickly, the guard took him down the back stairs, the ugly, dented steela dramatic contrast with the polished formality of the bank's publicspaces.  The gloom of the stairwell was scarcely diminished by thenaked, low-wattage electric bulbs that protruded from the wall at eachlanding.The guard's heavy shoes clattered on the metal stairs."Quiet," Ben said, speaking to him in German.  "Make no sound, or I willmake a very deafening one, and it will be the last thing you ever hear.""You have no chance," Laemmel said in a low, frightened voice.  "Nochance at all."Finally, they reached the wide double doors that led to the backalleyway.  Ben pressed on the cross latch, made sure that the doorsopened from within.  "This is the end of our little trip together," hesaid.Now Laemmel grunted.  "Do you think you are any safer outside of thisbuilding?"Ben stepped into the shadowy alleyway, feeling the cool air against hisflushed face.  "What the Polizei do is not your personal concern," hesaid, keeping his gun drawn."Die Polizei?"  Laemmel replied.  "I do not speak of them" He spat.An eel of fear thrashed in Ben's belly.  "What are you talking about?"he demanded urgently.  Ben gripped the gun in both his hands and raisedit to Laemmel's eyes.  "Tell me!"  he said with furious concentration."Tell me what you know!"There was a sudden exhalation of breath from Laemmel's throat, and awarm mist of crimson spattered Ben's face.  A bullet had torn throughthe man's neck.  Had Ben somehow lost his grip, squeezed the triggerwithout realizing it?  A second explosion, inches away from his head,answered the question.  There was a shooter in position.Oh, Christ!  Not again!As the guard crumpled face forward, Ben lunged down the dank alley.  Heheard a popping noise, as if from a toy gun, then a metallicreverberation, and a pockmark suddenly appeared on the large Dumpster tohis left.  The shooter had to be firing from his right.As he felt something hot crease his shoulder, he dove behind theDumpster: temporary refuge, but any port in a storm.  Out of the cornerof his eye, he saw the movement of something small and dark a rat,displaced by his arrival.  Move!  The ledge of the cement wall thatseparated the bank's back lot from that of its neighbor was at shoulderheight; Ben stuck the gun in the waistband of his trousers and, withboth hands, lifted himself up an dover.  A short pathway now separatedhim from Usteristrasse.  Grasping the revolver, he fired wildly, inthree different areas.  He wanted the shooter to take cover, believinghe was under fire.  He needed the time.  Every second now was precious.There was return fire, and he could hear the slugs hitting the concreteretainer, but Ben was safely on the other side.Now he charged, pumping his feet down the alley to Usteristrasse, fast.Faster.  Faster still!  "Run like your life depends on it," his trackcoach would tell him before competitions.  Now it did.And what if there were more than one shooter?  But surely they wouldn'thave had enough warning to put a whole team into position.  The thoughtsjostled and collided in Ben's mind.  Focus, dammit.A brackish smell cued him to his next move: it was a breeze from theSihl River, the charm less narrow waterway that branched off from theLimmat at the Platz-promenade.  Now he crossed the Gessner Allee,scarcely looking at the traffic, hurtling in front of a taxicab whosebearded driver honked and cursed at him before stepping on the brakes.But he'd made it across.  The Sihl, banked with a declivity of blackenedcinder blocks, stretched before him.  His eyes scanned the waterfrantically until he fixed on a small motorboat.  They were a commonsight on the Sihl; this one had a single passenger, a plump,beer-swilling man with sunglasses and a fishing pole, though he was notyet fishing.  His life jacket made his already bulky proportions lookeven bulkier.  The river would take him to the Sihlwald, a naturepreserve ten kilometers south of Zurich, where the riverbanks flattenedout in the woodlands and became furrowed with brooks.  It was a populardestination among the city's inhabitants.The plump man peeled plastic wrap from a white-bread sandwich, thentossed the plastic into the waters.  A notably antisocial act by Swissstandards.  Ben threw himself into the water, fully clothed, and startedto swim toward the boat, his clothing impeding his powerful crawlstroke.The water was frigid, carrying the bone-chilling cold of the glacierfrom which it originated, and Ben felt a stiffness seep through his bodyeven as he propelled himself through the slow-moving current.The man in the motorboat, pushing the sandwich into his face, slurpingfrom his bottle of Kronenberg, was aware of nothing until the smallmotorboat tilted abruptly leeward.  First two hands were visible, thefingers faintly bluish from the cold, and then he saw the man, fullydressed, pull himself up and into the boat, river water sluicing down anexpensive-looking suit."Was 1st das!"  he shouted.  He dropped his beer in alarm.  "Wer sindShe?""I need to borrow your boat," Ben told him in German, trying to stop histeeth from chattering from the cold."MeI Raus!"  Get out!  The man picked up his sturdy fishing pole andbrandished it with intended menace."Your choice," Ben said, and then sprang toward the man, tipping himover into the water, where he bobbed comically, buoyed by his lifejacket but sputtering with indignation."Save your breath."  Ben pointed toward the nearby Zollstrasse bridge."The tramline will take you wherever you need to go."  He reached overto the engine throttle and turned it way up.  The engine coughed, andthen roared, the boat gaining speed as it headed south.  He would not betaking it all the way to the Sihlwald, the forest preserve.  Half a miledown the river bend would do it.  Lying flat against the grip-texturedfiberglass floor of the boat, he was still able to see the tallerbuildings and storefronts along the Sihl, the immense Migros departmentstore, a bland, boxy structure; the sooty spires of the Schwarzenkirche;the intricately frescoed walls of the Klathaus.  Ben knew that he'd bevulnerable to any marksmen in position, but also that the chances oftheir having anticipated his movements were slim.  He felt for theenvelope in his jacket pocket, and the waxy enclosure crackledreassuringly.  He assumed it was waterproof, but this wasn't the time tomake sure.The motorboat moved faster, taking him beneath the algaed masonry of theStauffacherstrasse bridge.  Another fifth of a kilometer remained. Thencame the unmistakable sounds of a major expressway, the whizzing noiseof tires spinning along smooth-worn asphalt, of air against thecarriages and contours of trucks and automobiles, the occasional bleat,treble and basso, of horns, the meshing gears of a hundred vehiclesmoving like the wind.  It all fused into a white noise that rose andfell in intensity, the aural vibrations of industrial transportationblended into a mechanical surf.Ben veered the thrumming motorboat toward the gently sloped retainingwall, heard the scrape of its fiberglass hull against brick as hebrought it jerking to a halt.  Then he sprang from the boat and towardthe roadside gas station where he'd left his rented Range Rover, onlyminutes from the Nationalstrasse 3, the concrete river where he wouldmerge into the swiftly coursing traffic.Turning the steering wheel to change lanes, Ben felt a twinge in hisleft shoulder.  He reached over with his right hand and rubbed itgently.  Another twinge, sharper this time.  He took his hand away. Hisfingers were sticky, maroon with congealing blood.Matthias Deschner was in the same seat in front of Suchet's desk that hehad occupied just an hour before.  Suchet, behind the desk, was hunchedforward, his face tense."You should have warned me in advance," the banker said angrily.  "Wecould have stopped him from accessing the vault!""I had no advance notice myself!"  Deschner objected.  "They onlycontacted me yesterday.  They demanded to know whether I was shelteringhim.  Preposterous!""You know full well the penalty for noncompliance in such matters."Suchet's face was mottled with rage and fear."They made it very clear," Deschner said tonelessly."Only just now?  Then they only just learned of your possible connectionto the subject?""Certainly.  Do you think I had any idea what these brothers wereinvolved in?  I knew nothing.  Nothing!""That excuse has not always been successful in sparing the Teutonicneck, if I may speak historically.""A distant relative asked me for a favor," Deschner protested.  "Iwasn't apprised of its larger significance.""And you didn't inquire?""Members of our profession are trained not to ask too many questions.I'd think you'd agree with that.""And now you expose us both to danger!"  Suchet snapped."As soon as he showed up, I was called.  I could only presume theywanted him to access the vault!"There was a knock at the door.  Suchet's secretary entered, holdingaloft a small videocassette.  "This just came for you from Security,sir.""Thank you, Inge," Suchet said sweetly.  "A messenger will be arrivingmomentarily.  I'd like you to seal the tape in an envelope and give itto him.""Very good, sir," the secretary said, and she left the office as quietlyas she had come.CHAPTER FIFTEEN.In a modern eight-story building on Schaffhausserstrasse, not far fromthe University of Zurich, three men sat in a room filled with highpowered computers and high-resolution video monitors.  It was a studiorented from a multimedia production company that did duplication,restoration, and editing of video for surveillance firms andcorporations.One of the group, a white-haired, scrawny man in shirtsleeves who lookeda great deal older than his forty-six years, took a videocassette from aD-2 composite digital-format videotape recorder and placed it in one ofthe video slots in a Quantel Sapphire video-imaging computer.  He hadjust finished making a digital copy of the surveillance tape he'd beengiven.  Now, using this British-made video-imaging computer that hadoriginally been developed for the Home Office, Britain's MI-5, he wasgoing to magnify the image.The white-haired man, who worked in silence, had been one of the topvideo-enhancement specialists in the Home Office until he was lured awayby a private London security firm at double his old salary.  These twogentlemen in the room with him had hired him, through the security firm,to do a quick job in Zurich.  He had no idea who they were.  All he knewwas that they were paying him a generous bonus.  They had flown him fromLondon to Zurich business class.Now the two mysterious men sat off by themselves, talking.  They couldhave been international businessmen from any country in the world,although in fact they were speaking Dutch, which the video expertunderstood reasonably well.On the other side of the room, the white-haired technician stared at thecomputer screen.  At the bottom it said CAM 2, along with the date andthe time, which flashed by in fractions of a second.  He called out tohis clients: "All right, now tell me what you'd like done.  You want thebloke electronically compared against a photo you've got?""No," replied the first Dutchman.  "We know who it is.  We want to seewhat he's reading.""I should have figured," the technician groaned.  "Good God, that pieceof paper he's holding is in shadow.""How's the quality of the tape?"  the second man asked."Not bad," the tech said.  "Two frames a second, which is standard.  Alot of these banks use the most god-awful equipment, but fortunatelythis bank used a high-performance, high-res camera.  I mean, I can't saythe camera was positioned terribly well, but that's not uncommoneither."The second businessman asked, "So you can zoom in on whatever he'sholding?""Sure.  The software on this Quantel compensates for all the usualproblems you get from digital enlargement the blockiness and all that.That's not the problem.  The damned thing's in shadow.""Well, you're supposed to be the best," the first man said sourly."You're certainly the most expensive.""I know, I know," the tech said.  "All true.  Well, I can bring up thecontrast."  He clicked on a pull-down menu that listed "Crisp," "Zoom,""Colouring," and "Contrast."  By clicking on the " + " key he lightenedthe shadow until the paper the man in the bank vault was looking at wasalmost readable, then enhanced the resolution by clicking anothernumber.  He tinkered with the contrast some more, then clicked "crisp"to sharpen the image further."Good," he said at last."Can you see what he's reading?"  the second man asked."Actually, it's a photograph.""A photograph?""Right.  An old one.  A group shot.  Lots of conservatively dressed men.Looks like a bunch of businessmen.  A couple of German officers, too.Yes, a group shot.  Mountains in the background ""Can you make out their faces?""If you give me ... just... ah, here we are."  He zoomed in on thephotograph until it took up the entire screen.  " "Zurich, 1945," itsays here.  The "Sig' something ... ?"The second man glanced at the first.  "Good heavens."  He approached thecomputer monitor.The tech said, "Sigma AG?"The second man muttered to the first, "He's on to it.""As I thought," the first said."All right," said the second man to the technician.  "I want you toprint out a copy of that.  I also want the best head shot of this fellowyou can get.""Make fifty copies," put in the first man, rising from his chair.The second man crossed the room to talk to his colleague.  "Put out theword," he said quietly.  "Our precautions have been inadequate.  TheAmerican has become a serious threat."Washington, D.C.Anna Navarro hunched forward in her chair.  Alan Bartlett's office wasas immaculate as ever, the man's expression every bit as opaque."I've tracked Robert Mailhot's money transfers from the Nova ScotiaNational Bank back to an account in the Caymans, and there, I'm afraid,I've hit a dead end," Anna said.  "The one source we've got thereconfirms that the account shows recent activity involving one ofProsperi's funds, too.  But there, as I say, the money trail goes cold.It's one thing to learn where the money ends up.  It's another to learnwho put the money there in the first place.  Should we start workingthrough regular channels?""Out of the question," Bartlett said, a little peevish.  "It wouldcompromise the security of the entire operation.  That means anyone withan interest in stopping the investigation can do so easily.  It alsomeans endangering the lives of others, people who may still be targets.""I understand," Anna said.  "But I don't want a repeat of Asuncion,either.  That's the price you pay for going through back-channels.  Whoever's behind this, this--for want of a better word, thisconspiracy-obviously had enough influence to stop us.""Granted.  But once we raise this thing to an A-II level, a sanctionedinvestigation, it's like taking out an ad in The New York Times, tellingthe subjects of our inquiries what we're up to.  We can't assume therearen't people in the intelligence community working both sides on thismatter.""An A-II is still highly privileged.  I don't agree--""No, you wouldn't," he said freezingly.  "Perhaps I was wrong--perhapsyou really are a loyal bureaucrat at heart."She ignored his barb.  "I've been involved in many internationalinvestigations, including homicide investigations, that have been keptquiet.  Particularly when we think someone in the government might beimplicated.  In El Salvador, when government officials had Americanskilled to cover up ""As you know, I'm intimately acquainted with your previous exploits,Agent Navarro," Bartlett said impatiently.  "You're speaking of oneforeign government.  I'm speaking of half a dozen or more.  There's adifference.""You say there's been a victim in Oslo now?""That's our latest intelligence, yes.""Then we have the Attorney General's office make a high-level,confidential appeal to the Office of the Norwegian State Prosecutor,requesting absolute secrecy.""No.  The risks of a direct appeal to the Norwegian authorities are fartoo great.""Then I want the list.  Not the list of corpses.  I want the names ofpeople with Sigma clearance files.  Your 'hot list."  ""That's impossible.""I see I only get 'em when they're dead.  Well, in that case, I want offthis job."He hesitated.  "Don't play games, Ms.  Navarro.  You've been assigned."Bartlett's carefully cultivated air of solicitude and noblesse hadevaporated.  Now Anna caught a glimpse of the steel that had placedBartlett at the helm of one of the government's most powerfulinvestigative units.  "It's really not up to you.""I can get sick, suddenly become unable to perform my job.  Be unable totravel.""You wouldn't do that.""No, not if you gave me the hot list.""I told you.  It's impossible.  This operation must abide by certainrules.  If those rules sometimes amount to constraints, you must acceptthem as the parameters of your inquiry.""Look," she said, "thirteen of the old men on your Sigma list are nowdead under 'questionable circumstances," let's just say.  Three remainalive, right?""To the best of our knowledge.""Then let me put it to you this way.  Once one of these guys dies, iskilled, whatever we can't pay the body a visit without some kind ofofficial government cooperation, on whatever level.  Right?  But if weget to one of them before he's killed... Listen, I realize I'm supposedto be investigating dead people, not live ones.  But if we consider thempotential witnesses, put them under twenty-four-hour surveillancediscreetly, of course...."Bartlett stared at her, conflicting imperatives evidently playing acrosshis face.  Now he walked to a floor safe taller than he was, opened it,and pulled out a folder.  He handed her a sheet of paper stamped secret,noforn, and no contract  Those classifications stipulated that, inaddition to high-level secrecy constraints, it was under nocircumstances releasable to foreign nationals or contract employees."The list," he said quietly.She quickly read down the columns of information aliases, real names,names of any living relatives, and the numbers of the correspondingfiles.  Three old men remained alive.  Countries of origin: Portugal,Italy, Switzerland."No addresses?"  she said."Just old ones.  None current that we've been able to procure throughthe normal means.  All of them have relocated in the past year.""The past year?  They could be anywhere in the world.""That's a logical possibility.  The probability is that they're in thesame country, likely in the same general locale at a certain point oflife, one becomes subject to a sort of field of gravitation.  It'sdifficult for old men to completely uproot themselves.  Even when theirsafety is at risk, there is a level of personal tumult to which theywill refuse to subject themselves.  All the same, they haven't exactlyleft forwarding addresses.  Evidently, they're keeping a low profile.""Hiding," Anna said.  "They're afraid.""It would seem they have reason to be.""It's like there's some geriatric grudge match going on.  How couldsomething that started even before the CIA was founded still have suchpower?"Bartlett craned his neck, resting his gaze on the velvet-lined displaycase before he turned back.  "Certain things grow more powerful withage.  And, of course, it's a grave mistake to confuse size withinfluence.  Today, the CIA is a vast, solid government institution withendless layers of bureaucracy.  At the beginning, personal networks werewhere true power resided.  It was true of Bill Donovan, the founder ofthe OSS, and even more so of Alien Dulles.  Yes, Dulles is known for hisrole in creating the CIA, but that wasn't the most impressive of hisaccomplishments.  For him, there was one battle, the battle against therevolutionary left.""The 'gentleman spy," they called him, didn't they?""The 'gentleman' part made him as dangerous as the 'spy' part.  He wasnever more formidable than when he was a private citizen, back in thedays when he and his brother Foster ran the international financedivision of a certain law firm.""The law firm?  What did they do, double bill their clients?"Bartlett gave her a slightly pitying look.  "It's an amateur's error tounderestimate the reach and range of private concerns.  Theirs was morethan just a white-shoe law firm.  It had genuinely international reach.Dulles, traveling around the world, was able to weave a sort of spider'sweb across Europe.  He enlisted confederates in all the major cities,finding them among the Allies, the Axis, and the neutrals.""Confederates?"  Anna interrupted.  "How do you mean?""Highly placed individuals contacts, friends, 'assets," call them whatyou will whom Alien Dulles effectively had on retainer.  They served assources of information and advice, but also as agents of influence.Dulles knew how to appeal to people's self-interest.  After all, hefacilitated an extraordinary number of deals involving governments andmultinational corporations, and that made him an invaluable man to know.If you were a businessman, he could ensure that a large governmentcontract was steered in your direction.  If you were a governmentofficial, he might provide you with a crucial morsel of information thatwould further your career.  Money and intelligence Dulles understoodthat one could be readily converted to the other, like two currencies,albeit with constantly shifting exchange rates. And, of course, Dulles'sown role as a go between an intermediary, depended upon him knowing justa little bit more than everyone else.""A go-between?""Maybe you've heard of the Bank for International Settlement of Basel?""Maybe I haven't.""It was essentially a counting house where businessmen on both sides ofthe war could settle down and parse the distribution of dividends.  Avery useful institution to have if you were a businessman.  After all,business didn't cease simply because the cannons began to fire.  But thehostilities did interfere with the conduct of corporate partnerships andalliances, giving rise to all sorts of impediments.  Dulles figured outways to circumvent those impediments.""That's not an attractive picture.""It's the reality.  Dulles, you see, believed in the 'network."  It'sthe key to understanding his life's mission.  A network was an array ofindividuals a whole, a complex configuration, that could have aninfluence vastly greater than the sum of its parts.  It's a strikingthing to contemplate.  As I say, it always comes down to the crookedtimber of humanity."Anna raised an eyebrow.  "It sounds a little frightening."A vein pulsed on Bartlett's temple.  "It is a little frightening, andperhaps more than a little.  The nature of these networks, after all, isthat they are invisible to those who are not part of them invisible evento some who are.  And they also have a tendency to survive theindividuals they initially comprise.  You could say they take on a lifeof their own.  And they can have powerful effects on the organizationsthat they invade."  He adjusted his French cuffs again.  "I talked ofspider's webs.  There's a curious parasitic wasp, very tiny, of thegenus Hymenoepime-as a clever little creature that stings a spider intotemporary paralysis, and lays its eggs in the spider's abdomen.  Soonthe spider goes back to work, as if nothing had happened, even as thelarvae grow inside him, nourished on its fluids.  Then, on the nightthat the larvae will molt and kill the spider, they chemically induce itto change its behavior.  On this night, the spider is induced to spin acocoon web, useless to the spider but necessary for the larva. As soonas the spider has finished its work, the larvae consume the spider andhang the pupal cocoon in the special web.  It's quite extraordinary,really, the parasite's fine-grained manipulation of the host's behavior.But it's nothing compared to what we humans can devise.  That's the sortof thing I think about, Ms.  Navarro.  Who's inside of us?  What forcesmight be manipulating the apparatus of civic governance into building aweb that will serve their own purposes? When will the parasite decide toconsume the host?""O.K."  I'll play along," Anna said.  "Let's say half a century ago,some dark conspiracy stings us, in effect implants something that'sgoing to grow and cause damage.  Even if all that's so, how would weever know?""That is an excellent question, Ms.  Navarro," Bartlett replied.  "Websare hard to see, aren't they, even when they're big.  Have you everwalked into an old basement or storage area in a dim light, seeingnothing in the gloom?  Then you switch on a flashlight, and suddenly yourealize that the empty space over your head isn't exactly empty--it'sfilled with layers of cobwebs, a vast canopy of glassy filaments.  Youdirect the beam in another direction, and that canopy disappears--as ifit were never there.  Had you imagined it?  You look straight up.Nothing. Then, directing the beam at just the right off-angle, focusingyour eyes on some intermediate point, it all becomes visible once more."Bartlett's gaze searched her face for comprehension. "People like mespend our days looking for that one odd angle that brings the old websinto view.  Often we look too hard, and we imagine things.  Sometimes wesee what's really there.  You, Ms.  Navarro, strike me as someone notprone to imagine things.""I'll accept that at face value," Anna replied."I don't mean to imply that you lack imagination--only that you keep itunder tight control.  No matter.  The point is simply that there werealliances forged among some individuals with considerable resources.That much is part of public history.  And as for what became of this? Ionly wish we knew.  All we have are these names.""Three names," Anna said.  "Three old men.""I'd direct your particular attention to Gaston Rossignol.  He'd beenquite a powerful Swiss banker in his heyday.  The most prominent personon the list, and the oldest.""All right," she said, looking up.  "The Zuricher.  I assume you'veprepared a background file on him."Bartlett opened a desk drawer, withdrew a file festooned withclassificatory warning stamps, and slid it to her across the desk. "It'sfairly extensive, aside from the obvious lacunae.""Good," Anna said.  "I want to see him before they get to him, too.""Assuming you can locate him.""He's lived his entire life in Zurich.  As you say, there's a field ofgravitation there.  Even if he's moved, he would have left behindfriends, family members.  Tributaries leading to the source.""Or moats, protecting a fortress.  A man like Rossignol has powerfulfriends, highly placed ones, who will do whatever they can to protecthim.  Friends who are, as the French say, branche.  Powerful and pluggedin.  They have the ability to remove him from the grid of visibility,the bureaucratic files and computer records.  Do you have some cleversubterfuge in mind?""Nothing like that.  Subterfuge is what they'll be on guard against.Rossignol has nothing to fear from me.  If his friends and confederatesare as well informed as you suggest, they'll realize that and spread theword.""So you're envisaging a simple "I come in peace'?"  The words were wry,but he looked intrigued.Anna shrugged.  "Some version of that.  I suspect the best route will bethe most direct one.  But I'll find out soon enough."  She glanced ather watch.  "I'm taking the next flight I can catch to Zurich."Mettlenberg, St.  Gallen, SwitzerlandA little over five hours later, Ben Hartman sat in his rented RangeRover in the staff parking lot of the Regionalspital Sankt Gallen Nord,watching people coming and going: doctors, nurses, hospital workers. Thepowerful engine idled softly.  Fortunately, there weren't many people,even at a few minutes after five o'clock, the end of the workday for theoffice workers.  Twilight was beginning to fall, and the outside lightswere starting to come on.From Zurich he had called the hospital and asked for Dr.  MargaretheHubli.  He was put right through to Pediatrics, where he asked, inEnglish, whether she was in.Yes, he was told; would you like to make an appointment to see thedoctor?  The nurse's English was halting but comprehensible."No," he'd said, "I really just wanted to make sure the doctor was inthe hospital.  My child is ill, and I want to know whether you had apediatrician on call in case we need one."  He thanked the nurse and,after finding out how late Dr.  Hubli worked, hung up.Liesl was scheduled to be in the hospital only until four in theafternoon.  He'd been waiting here over two hours; already she was morethan an hour late in leaving.  Ben was certain she had not yet emergedfrom the hospital.  Moreover, he had spotted her Renault parked in thelot.  He figured she was the sort of dedicated doctor who worked longhours and paid little attention to schedules.He might be sitting here for quite some time, he realized.The document of incorporation that Peter had referred to wasn't in thevault, so where else might it be?  He had said he'd hidden it awaysafely.  Was it possible that Liesl was telling the truth, that shereally didn't know where it was?  In that case was it possible thatPeter had concealed it somewhere among his possessions in the cabinwithout Liesl knowing?She'd answered too quickly when he'd asked her whether Peter might havehidden something there.  She knew something she wasn't telling.He had to go to the cabin.Forty minutes later, Liesl came out of the Emergency entrance.She was talking to someone, bantering.  She gave a wave good-bye andzipped up her leather jacket.  Then she half-walked, half-ran to hercar, got in, and started it up.Ben waited until she'd gone some distance down the road before he pulledout of the lot.  She wouldn't recognize the Range Rover and would haveno cause for suspicion, apart from her normal cautiousness. Still, itwas better not to alarm her.At a travel bookstore in Zurich he'd bought a map of the canton of St.Gallen and studied the roads in the area.  Both Peter and Liesl hadmentioned living in a "cabin," which likely meant that it was situatedin a forest or woods.  There was one wooded area about eight kilometersfrom the hospital, roughly north-northwest.  The only other one within atwo-hour drive was forty kilometers away.  That was quite a distance, onback roads, for someone who had to go to work every day some-times evenhad to return to the hospital quickly in emergencies.  More likely thecabin was located in the closer woods.Having committed the roads in the area to memory, he knew that the nextturnoff wasn't for two kilometers.  But if she stopped somewhere alongthe road and turned off, he stood a chance of losing her.  All he coulddo was hope she didn't.Soon the road rose steeply, following the hilly topography of this partof Switzerland.  It enabled him to look far ahead, and he was able tospot what he determined was her Renault, stopped at a traffic light. Atthe next intersection was a highway marked 10.  If she took a left onto10, she was heading toward the forest he had scoped out.  If she took aright, or went beyond 10, he'd have no idea where she was going.The Renault turned left.He accelerated and reached the intersection just a few minutesafter she had.  There were enough other cars on the road that he wasn'ttoo obvious.  He felt sure she still had no idea he was tailing her.The four-lane highway went parallel to a set of railroad tracks, pastseveral immense farms, great fields that went on as far as he could see.Suddenly she turned off, a few kilometers before he expected she would.Once he turned onto the narrow, winding road, he realized that his wasthe only car behind her.  Not good.  It had gotten dark, and the roadwas barely trafficked, and she would soon realize he was following her.How could she not?  If she did, she would either slow down to see who itwas behind her or, more likely, try to lose him.  If she began drivingstrangely, he would have no choice but to show himself.Luckily, the twisty road helped to conceal him, as long as he stayed atleast one bend behind her.  Now they passed a sparsely wooded area thatgradually became denser.  From time to time he would see the flash ofher headlights, appearing and then disappearing around the bends.  Thisenabled him to follow her at some remove, to let her gain considerabledistance on him, just in case she had noticed the Rover.But a few minutes later he could no longer see her headlights.Where had she gone?  Had she pulled off the road?  He accelerated, tosee whether she had herself sped up, but after a kilometer he saw notrace of her.She had to have turned off into the woods, though he didn't seem to havepassed by any roads or paths that led into the forest.  He stopped, madea U-turn no cars were coming in either direction and reversed course,slowing down to look for any turnoffs.It wasn't easy; it had gotten quite dark.Soon he spotted what could barely be called a road.  It was a dirt trailthat looked like a footpath, but upon closer examination he saw tireruts.He turned onto it, and saw at once that he would have to drive slowly.It was just wide enough for the Renault, but there was not quite enoughclearance for the Range Rover.  Twigs and branches scraped the sides ofthe car.  He slowed down even more: the noise might attract herattention.The St.  Gallen map had told him that the forest he had entered was notlarge.  It surrounded a small lake a pond, actually and there appearedto be no other road that led into or out of the woods.Good.Assuming the map was accurate.The path came to a fork, and he stopped, got out of the car, and sawthat one branch of the road dead-ended a hundred feet ahead.  The otherbranch, deeply rutted, continued.  He turned down that path andnavigated with some difficulty, wondering how Liesl's Renault could makeit if the Range Rover was having such trouble.It was not long before this path, too, came to an end.And then he saw the Renault.He parked his vehicle beside it, and got out.  By now it was fully dark,and he could see nothing.  Once the car's engine was shut off there wasmostly silence.  Rustlings now and again that sounded like smallanimals.  The chirp and twitter of birds.His eyes became accustomed to the dark, and he could make out anotherpath, even narrower, canopied with branches.  Ducking down under one, heentered, losing his footing a few times, his hands held out before hisface to shield his eyes from the twigs.He saw a glow, and came upon a clearing.  In it was a small cabin builtof split logs and rough white plaster.  There were several glasswindows; it clearly wasn't as rustic as it appeared.  A light shone frominside.  This was the back of the cabin; the entrance had to be on theother side.  Treading softly, he approached the cabin and made his wayaround to the front, where he expected the entrance to be.Suddenly there was a metallic click.  He looked up with a jolt.Liesl was standing before him, pointing a gun."Stop right there!"  she shouted."Wait!"  Ben called back.  God, she was fearless, coming right out toconfront the interloper.  A split-second was all it would take for herto kill him."It's you!"  she spat out with sudden realization.  "What the hell areyou doing here?"  She lowered the gun."I need your help, Liesl," he said.In the oblique moonlight her shadowed face seemed contorted with rage."You must have followed me from the hospital!  How dare you!""You've got to help me find something, Liesl, please."  He had to makeher listen.She whipped her head from side to side, frantic.  "You have compromisedmy security!  Goddamn you to hell!""Liesl, I wasn't followed.""How can you possibly know?  Did you rent this car?""In Zurich.""Of course.  Idiot!  If they were watching you in Zurich, they'll knowyou rented the car!""But no one followed me here.""What do you know?"  she snapped.  "You're an amateur!""So are you.""Yes, but I am an amateur who has lived with the threat of death forfour years.  Now please, get out.  Go."""No, Liesl," he said with quiet finality.  "We need to talk."CHAPTER SIXTEEN.The cabin was simple yet cozy, low-ceilinged, book-lined.  Peter hadbuilt the bookshelves himself, Liesl said proudly.  The floor was wideboard pine.  There was a stone fireplace, a neat stack of split logspiled next to it, a wood stove, a small kitchen.  The whole placesmelled of smoke.It was cold; she lit the wood stove for some heat.  Ben took off hiscoat."You're hurt," Liesl said.  "You've been hit."Ben looked at himself, saw that the left shoulder of his shirt was stiffwith dried blood.  Oddly, it hadn't been painful--stress and exhaustionhad somehow rendered him insensate to the injury, and he'd put it out ofhis mind during the long drive through the mountains."I'm sure it looks a lot worse than it is," Ben said."That depends," she said, "on what it looks like.  Remove the shirt."She spoke like the doctor she was.  ," Ben undid the buttons of hiswhite pinpoint Oxford cloth shirt.  The fabric adhered to the top of hisleft shoulder, and when he tugged, there was a warning twinge of pain.Liesl took a clean sponge, soaked it with warm water, and wet the area.Then she carefully peeled the shirt from his wounded shoulder.  "You'vebeen incredibly lucky: a bullet creased you, no more.  Tell me whathappened."As Liesl tended to his wound, Ben recounted the events that happenedonly hours before."There's debris here.  It must be cleansed carefully, or there will bethe risk of infection."  She sat him next to the sink, poured someboiling water from a kettle, and left it to cool in a porcelain bowl.She went away for a few minutes and reappeared with a quantity of gauzeand a yellow plastic bottle of antiseptic.Ben found himself wincing as she carefully washed the area, then wineing again as she daubed it with cotton saturated with the brown-coloredantiseptic.  "Cleaning it hurts worse than getting it did," Ben said.Liesl applied four strips of medical adhesive tape to secure the sterilewound dressing in place.  "You won't be so lucky next time," she saiddryly."What I most need right now isn't luck," Ben said.  "It's knowledge.  Ineed to understand what the hell is going on.  I need to get a fix onSigma.  They sure seem to have a fix on me.""Luck, knowledge trust me, you'll need both."  Now she handed him ashirt.  A heavy shirt of knitted cotton.  One of Peter's.Suddenly the reality of the past few days, the reality he'd tried tohold at bay, reared up and he felt a surge of vertigo, panic, sorrow,despair."I'll help you put it on," she said, alert to the anguish that playedacross his face.He had to regain his composure, he knew, if only for her sake.  He couldmerely guess at her own wrenching pain.  When the shirt was on him,Liesl stared at him for a few moments.  "You're so alike.  Peter nevertold me.  I think he never realized how alike you are.""Twins never recognize themselves in each other.""It was more than that.  And I don't mean physically.  Some people wouldhave said that Peter was aimless.  I knew better.  He was like a sail,something that's slack only until it captures the wind.  And then itpossesses the force of the wind."  She shook her head, as if frustratedby her fumbling attempts to communicate.  "I mean that Peter had alarger sense of purpose.""I knew what you meant.  It's what I admired most about him, the life hecame to create for himself.""It was a passion," Liesl said, her eyes sad, gleaming, "a passion forjustice, and it infused every aspect of his being."" "A passion for justice."  Those aren't words that mean much in theworld of asset management," Ben said bitterly."A world you found stifling," Liesl said.  "It was suffocating you bydegrees, wasn't it, just as Peter said it would.""There are quicker ways to die," Ben said.  "As I've had reason to learnof late.""Tell me about the school where you taught.  In New York, Peter said.I've been to New York a couple of times, as an adolescent, and once,later, to a medical conference.""It was in New York, yes.  But not a New York any tourist ever sees. Itaught in a place called East New York.  About five square miles of someof the worst-off people in the whole city.  You've got some auto shops,and bode gas places that'll sell you cigarettes and booze, and placesthat'll cash your checks.  The Seventy-fifth Precinct what the cops callthe Seven-Five, those unfortunate enough to be assigned to it.  When Iwas teaching, there were more than a hundred homicides in theSeven-Five.  Some nights, it sounded like Beirut.  You'd go to sleep tothe sound of Saturday Night Specials.  A desperate place. Pretty muchwritten off by the rest of society.""And that's where you taught.""I thought it was obscene that in America, the wealthiest nation in theworld, this sort of desolation was still tolerable.  Here was a placethat made Soweto look like Scarsdale.  Sure, there were the usualineffectual poverty programs, but there was also the unspoken convictionof futility.  "The poor will always be with us' nobody used those wordsanymore, but that's what they meant.  They used other code words, talkedabout 'structural' this and 'behavioral' that, and, hey, the middleclass was doing just fine, wasn't it?  So I stuck it out.  I wasn'tgoing to save the world, I wasn't naive.  But I told myself that if Icould save one kid, maybe two, maybe three, my efforts wouldn't havebeen wasted.""And did you?""Possibly," Ben said, suddenly tired.  "Possibly.  I wasn't around anylonger to find out, was I?"  He spat out the words with distaste: "I wasordering truffled timbales at Aureole, quaffing Cristal with clients.""Sounds like a terrible shock to the system, that kind of change," Lieslsaid gently.  She attended to his words carefully, perhaps in need ofdistraction from her own pain."It was deadening, I think.  The hell of it was, I was actually good atit.  I had a knack for the game, the rituals of client courtship.  Ifyou wanted someone who could order at the city's most expensiverestaurants without glancing at the menu, I was your man.  And then, asoften as I could, I'd go risk my neck recreation ally of course.  I wasan extreme sport junkie.  I'd go climb the Vermillion Cliffs, inArizona.  Sail solo to Bermuda.  Go para-skiing in Cameron Pass.Courtney an old girlfriend of mine used to insist I had a death wish,but that wasn't it at all.  I did those things to feel alive."  He shookhis head.  "It sounds silly now, doesn't it?  The idle diversions of apampered rich kid, someone who hadn't figured out a reason for gettingdressed in the morning.""Maybe it was because you'd been taken from your natural element," Lieslsaid."And what was that?  I'm not sure that saving souls in East New York wasgoing to be a lifelong calling, either.  Anyway, I never got the chanceto find out.""I think you were a sail, like Peter.  You just needed to find yourwind."  She smiled sadly."The wind found me, it would seem.  And it's a goddamn monsoon.  Someconspiracy that was launched half a century ago and is still claiminglives.  Specializing in the people I love.  Maybe you've never been in asmall boat during a storm, Liesl, but I have.  And the first thing youdo is drop the sail.""Is that really an option now?"  She poured him a small quantity ofbrandy in a water glass."I don't even know what the options are.  You and Peter have spent a lotmore time thinking about it than I have.  What conclusions did you cometo?""Just the ones I told you.  A great deal of conjecture for the mostpart.  Peter did a lot of research into the period.  He was disheartenedby what he found out.  The Second World War was a conflict that hadclear rights and wrongs, and yet many of those involved were utterlyindifferent to what was at stake.  There were numerous corporationswhose only concern was to maintain their operating margin. Some, alas,even viewed the war as an opportunity to be exploited an opportunity toincrease their profits.  The victors never adequately came to grips withthis legacy of corporate double-dealing.  It was never convenient to doso."  Her sardonic half-smile reminded Ben of his brother's banked senseof outrage, his smoldering anger."Why not?""Too many American and British industries might have had to be seizedfor trading with the enemy, for collaboration.  Better to sweep theproblem under the carpet.  The Dulles brothers, you know, made sure ofit.  Tracking down the real collaborators it wouldn't have looked good.It would have blurred the lines between good and evil, interfered withthe myth of Allied innocence.  Forgive me if I don't explain myself verywell these are stories I have heard many times.  There was a youngattorney in the Justice Department who dared make a speech aboutcollaborations between American businessmen and the Nazis.  He wasimmediately fired.  After the war, German officials were called to task,some of them.  And yet the citadel of Axis industrialists was neverprobed, never disturbed.  Why prosecute German industrialists who haddone business with Hitler who had, really, made Hitler possible giventhat they were just as happy now to do business with America? Whenoverzealous officials at Nuremberg had a few of them convicted, yourJohn J. McCloy, the American High Commissioner, had their sentencescommuted.  The 'excesses' of fascism were regrettable, butindustrialists had to look after each other, right?"Once again, he could almost detect Peter's passionate voice in her recountings  Dully, he said, "I still have a hard time getting my mindaround it financial partnerships when the two sides were at war?""Things aren't always as they seem.  Hitler's senior-most intelligenceofficer, Reinhard Gehlen, had already begun planning his own surrenderin 1944.  The high command knew which way the wind was blowing, theyknew Hitler was mad, irrational.  So they bartered.  They microfilmedtheir files on the USSR."  buried them in watertight drums in themountain meadows of the Alps, not a hundred miles from here, andpresented themselves to the American Counterintelligence Corps to make adeal.  After the war, you Americans put Gehlen in charge of the "SouthGerman Industrial Development Organization."  "Ben shook his head blearily.  "It sounds like you both got prettyimmersed in this stuff.  And it sounds like I'm way out of my depths."He knocked back the rest of the brandy."Yes, I suppose we did get rather deep into all of this.  We had to.  Iremember something Peter told me.  He said the real question isn't wherethey are.  It's where they aren't.  That the real question isn't whocan't be trusted, but who can be.  Once it sounded like paranoia.""But no longer.""No," Liesl agreed, her voice trembling slightly.  "And now they havearrayed their forces against you, through both official and unofficialchannels."  She hesitated.  "There is something else I must give you."Once more, she disappeared into the bedroom, and then came back with aplain cardboard box, the sort a dry cleaner might package a shirt in.She opened it on the rough-hewn table in front of them.  Papers.Laminated ID cards.  Passports.  The folding currency of modernbureaucracy."They were Peter's," Liesl said.  "The fruits of four years in hiding."Ben's fingers quickly sorted through the identity papers as if they wereplaying cards.  Three different names, all appended to the same face.Peter's face.  And, for all practical intents, his own.  ""Robert Simon."  Smart.  There must be thousands of people with thatname in North America.  "Michael Johnson."  Likewise.  "John Freedman."These look like good work, professional work, if I'm any judge.""Peter was a perfectionist," Liesl said.  "I'm sure they are flawless."Ben continued to go through the documents and saw that the passportscame with matching credit cards.  In addition, there were documents for"Paula Simon" and other spousal identities: if Robert Simon needed totravel with his "wife," he'd be prepared.  Ben marveled, but hisadmiration was shadowed by a deep sadness.  Peter's precautions weremeticulous, obsessive, exhaustive and yet they could not save him."I've got to ask, Liesl: Can we be sure that Peter's pursuers the Sigmagroup or whoever they are aren't on to them?  Any of these could beflagged.""Possibilities are not likelihoods.""When was the last time he used "Robert Simon'?  And under whatcircumstances?"Liesl closed her eyes in concentration, retrieving the details withremarkable precision.  After twenty minutes, Ben had satisfied himselfthat at least two of Peter's aliases, unused in the last twenty-fourmonths, were unlikely to have been detected.  He tucked the papers intothe capacious inside pockets of his leather coat.He placed a hand on Liesl's and looked into her clear blue eyes. "Thankyou, Liesl," he said.  What an astonishing woman she was, he thoughtonce more, and how lucky his brother was to have found her."The shoulder wound will scab over and heal in a matter of days," shesaid.  "You will find it considerably harder to shed your identity,though these documents will help."Liesl opened a bottle of red wine and poured each of them a glass.  Thewine was excellent, deep and rich and tannic, and Ben soon began torelax.For a few moments the two of them silently watched the fire.  Benthought: If Peter had hidden the document here, where could it be?  Andif not here, where?  He'd said it was hidden away safely.  Had he leftit with Matthias Deschner?  But that made no sense: Why would he go tosuch lengths to open a bank account because of the vault that came withit, and then not put the incorporation document in the vault?Why hadn't any document been in the vault?He wondered about Deschner.  What was his role, if any, in what hadhappened at the bank?  Had he secretly alerted the banker that Ben wasin the country illegally?  If so, the timing didn't track: Deschnercould have done so before Ben had been admitted to the vault.  Was itpossible that Deschner had gotten into the vault--as he easily couldhave despite his claim that he could not--months or years before, takenthe document, then given it to his brother's pursuers?  Yet Liesl hadsaid she trusted her cousin ... Contradictory thoughts swirled around inhis brain, warring with one another until Ben couldn't think clearlyanymore.Liesl spoke at last, interrupting his troubled ruminations.  "The factthat you could so easily follow me here worries me," she said.  "Nooffense, please, but again, you're an amateur.  Think of how much easierit would have been for a professional."Whether or not she was right, it was crucial to reassure her, Bensensed.  "But keep in mind, Liesl, that Peter had told me you two livedin a cabin in the woods, near a lake.  Once I figured out which hospitalit was, that narrowed things down considerably.  If I didn't know asmuch, I'd probably have lost you pretty early on."She said nothing, just stared with unease at the fire."You know how to use that thing?"  Ben asked, glancing toward therevolver she'd left on a table by the door."My brother was in the army.  Every Swiss boy knows how to fire a gun.There's even a national holiday where Swiss boys go off to shoot.  Myfather just happened to believe that a girl is every bit the equal of aboy and should learn to use a gun too.  So I'm prepared for this life."She rose.  "Well, I'm famished, and I'm going to make some dinner." Benfollowed her to the kitchen.She lit the gas oven, then took a whole chicken from the tinyrefrigerator, buttered it and sprinkled it with dried herbs, and put itin the oven to roast.  While she boiled some potatoes and sauteed somegreens, they made idle conversation about her work and his, about Peter.After a while, Ben retrieved the photograph from his jacket pocket.He'd verified, enroute, that the wax envelope had protected it fromwater damage.  Now he showed it to her.  "Do you have any idea who thesemen might be?"  he asked.Her eyes suddenly registered alarm.  "Oh, my God, that has to be yourfather!  He looks so much like you two.  What a handsome man he was!""And these others?"She hesitated, shook her head, clearly troubled.  "They look likeimportant men, but then they all did in those heavy business suits. I'msorry, I don't know.  Peter never showed this to me.  He just told meabout it.""And the document I mentioned the articles of incorporation did he evermention hiding it somewhere here?"She stopped stirring the greens.  "Never."  She said it with absolutecertainty."You're sure?  It wasn't in the vault.""He would have told me if he'd hidden it here.""Not necessarily.  He didn't show you this photograph.  He may havewanted to protect you, or maybe keep you from worrying.""Well, then your guess is as good as mine.""Would you mind if I looked around?""Be my guest."While she finished making dinner, he searched the cabin methodically,trying to put himself into his brother's head.  Where would Peter havehidden it?  He ruled out any place that Liesl would have regularlycleaned or had any reason to look.  Liesl and Peter's bedroom was one oftwo small rooms off the living room area, the other being Peter's study.But both rooms were spartanly furnished and yielded nothing.He checked the floor all over for any loose planks, then inspected thelog-and-plaster walls, but nothing."Do you have a flashlight?"  Ben asked, returning to the kitchen area."I want to look outside.""Of course.  There's a flashlight in every room the lights go out often.There's one on the table by the door.  But we'll be ready to eat in justa few minutes.""I'll make it quick."  He took the flashlight and stepped outside, whereit was cold and completely dark.  He made a cursory tour of the grassyarea surrounding the cabin.  There was a scorched place where theyobviously cooked outdoors, and a large log pile covered with atarpaulin.The document might have been hidden in a container beneath a rock, butthat 'would have to wait until the light of morning.  He beamed theflashlight on the exterior of the cabin, made his way slowly around thewalls, poking around a propane tank, but again turned up nothing.When he went back inside, Liesl had already set out two plates andsilverware on a red-and-white-checked tablecloth over a small roundtable against a window."Smells delicious," Ben said."Please, sit."She poured two more glasses of wine and served both of them.  The foodwas wonderfully flavored, and Ben devoured it.  They both concentratedon eating, and only began to talk after they'd satisfied their hunger.The second glass of wine made Liesl melancholy.  As she spoke aboutPeter and how they met, she cried.  She recalled how Peter had takensuch pride in furnishing their cabin, their home, building the bookcasesand much of the furniture himself.The bookcases, Ben thought.  Peter had built the bookcases ... He got upsuddenly.  "Would you mind if I looked at little closer at the shelves?""Why not," she said with a tired wave.The bookcases appeared to have been built as several separate units andassembled in place.  They weren't open shelves; you could not see thelog-and-plaster walls behind them.  Instead, Peter had built a backingof wood.Shelf by shelf, Ben removed all of the books and looked behind them."What are you doing?"  Liesl called out in vexation."I'll put them all back, don't worry," Ben said.Half an hour later, he hadn't found anything.  Liesl had finished doingthe dishes and announced that she was exhausted.  But Ben kept at it,removing each shelf of books, looking behind them, becoming more andmore frustrated.  When he came to the row of novels by F ScottFitzgerald, he smiled sadly.  The Great Gatsby had been Peter'sfavorite.Then, behind the Fitzgeralds, he found a small compartment that had beenflush-mounted, almost invisibly, into the wooden shelf backing.Peter had done an impeccable job of carpentry: even with all the booksoff the shelf, you could barely see the faint rectangular outline of thecompartment.  He pried at it with his fingernails, but it didn't yield.He poked at it, pressed in, and then it popped open.  A neat piece ofcraftsmanship.  Peter the perfectionist.The document was carefully rolled up.  A rubber band held the rolltogether.  Ben pulled it out, removed the rubber band, unrolled it.It was a fragile, yellowed sheet of paper covered with mimeographedlettering.  Just one page.  Merely the front page of a corporate filing.It was headed sigma ag.  There was a date: April 6, 1945.Then a list of what had to be the company's officers and directors.Dear God, he thought, thunderstruck.  Peter had been right: there werenames he recognized.  Names of corporations that still existed, thatmade automobiles and weapons and consumer goods.  Names of moguls andcorporate chairmen.  In addition to the figures he'd recognized from thephotograph, there was the fabled magnate Cyrus Weston, whose steelempire had exceeded even that of Andrew Carnegie's, and Avery Henderson,who was regarded by business historians as the twentieth century's mostimportant financier after John Pierpont Morgan.  There were the chiefexecutive officers of the major automotive companies; of earlygeneration technology firms that had taken the lead in developing radar,microwave, and refrigeration technologies--technologies whose fullpotential wouldn't be realized for years, decades, to come.  The headsof the three largest petroleum companies, based in America, Britain, andthe Netherlands.  Telecommunication giants, before they were calledthat.  The mammoth corporations of the time, some as intact and as vastas ever, some of them now subsumed into corporate entities even greaterthan themselves.  Industrialists from America, Western Europe, and, yes,even a few from wartime Germany.  And toward the very top of the listwas the name of the treasurer: max hartman(OBERSTURMFUHRER, SS).His heart was hammering away crazily.  Max Hartman, a lieutenant inHitler's SS.  If this was a forgery... it was certainly well done.  Hehad seen documents of incorporation many times before, and this lookedvery much like a page from such a document.Liesl emerged from the kitchen.  "You have found something?"The fire was dying, and the room was beginning to get cold.  "Do youknow any of those names?"  Ben asked."The famous ones.  The mighty 'captains of industry," as Peter calledthem.""But almost of all them are dead now.""They would have heirs, successors.""Yes.  Well-protected ones," Ben said.  "There are other names here,too, names that I don't recognize.  I'm not a historian."  He pointed toa few of those names, those that were not from the English-speakingworld.  "Are any of these names familiar to you?  And any of themalive?"She sighed.  "Gaston Rossignol, I know, must still live in Zurich,everyone's heard of him.  A pillar of the Swiss banking establishmentfor much of the postwar era.  Gerhard Lenz was an associate of JosefMengele, who did all those terrible medical experiments on prisoners. Amonster.  He died somewhere in South America many years ago.  And, ofcourse ..."  Her voice trailed off."Peter was right," Ben said."About your father?""Yes.""It's strange.  Der Apfel fall!  Night wett vom Stamm, my people say-theapple doesn't fall far from the tree.  You and Peter are really soalike.  And when I look at Max Hartman as a young man, I see you in him.Yet you're both so utterly different from your father.  Appearance is anuncertain guide.""He is an evil man.""I'm sorry."  She looked at him for a long while.  Whether it was out ofsorrow, or pity, or something more, Ben couldn't decide.  "Just now youlook more like your brother than ever before.""How do you mean?""You look... haunted.  As he came to look in the last--the last months."She closed her eyes, blinking back tears.  After a moment, she said,"The couch in Peter's study pulls out into a bed.  Let me get it readyfor you.""That's all right," he said.  "I can do it.""Let me at least get you some linens.  And then I'll say good night. I'mabout to drop from exhaustion and too much wine.  I was never adrinker.""You've been through some hard times recently," he said.  "We bothhave."He said good night, undressed, then carefully folded the document andtucked it into the pocket of his leather jacket, next to Peter'sidentity papers.  Within moments he had fallen into a deep, almostdrugged sleep.He and his brother were packed into a sealed boxcar, jammed with otherpeople, unbearably hot, foul-smelling, because none of the prisoners hadbathed in days.  He was unable to move his limbs.  Soon he passed out,and the next thing he knew they were somewhere else, again in a crowd ofprisoners, walking skeletons with shaved heads.  But Peter lookedrelieved, because at last he would be allowed to take a shower, and sowhat if it was a communal shower?  Ben was overcome with panic, becausehe knew.  Somehow he knew.  He tried to shout: "Peter!  No! This is nota shower--it's a gas chamber!  Get out!  It's a gas chamber!"  Yet hiswords would not come out.  The others stood there like zombies, andPeter just glared at him, not understanding.  A baby was crying, andthen a few young women.  He tried to shout again, but nothing came out.He was wild with terror.  He felt suffocated, claustrophobic.  He sawhis brother's upturned head, welcoming the water he expected to comefrom the nozzles.  At the same time, he could hear the knobs beingturned, the rusty squeak-squeak-squeak of the valves opening, the hissof the gas.  He shouted, "No!"  opened his eyes, and looked around atthe pitch-dark study.Slowly he sat up, listening.  There was no rusty squeak; he had dreamedit.  He was in his late brother's cabin in the woods, and he had beensleeping.But had he heard a noise, or had he dreamed that, too?Then he heard the thunk of a car door closing.It was unmistakable; there is no other sound like that.  And it was abig car, perhaps a truck.  His Range Rover?He bolted out of bed, grabbed the flashlight, slipped quickly into hisjeans and sneakers, and threw on his leather jacket.  He thought: Couldit be Liesl who'd gotten into, or out of, the Range Rover for somereason?  He passed by her bedroom and pushed open the door.She was in bed, eyes closed, asleep.Oh, God.  It was someone else.  Someone was out there!He rushed to the front door, grabbed the revolver from the table, openedthe door silently.  He looked around the clearing, illuminated by thepale light of a crescent moon.  He didn't want to switch on the flashlight, didn't want to call attention to himself or alert whoever was outthere.  Then he heard an ignition turn and the roar of an engine comingto life.  He raced outside, saw the Range Rover still parked there,caught the red taillights of a truck."Hey!"  he shouted, running after it.The truck was barreling down the narrow dirt path at maximum speed,constrained only by the closeness of the trees.  Ben ran faster, gun inone hand, clutching the Mag-Lite flashlight in the other like a baton atone of his college track meets.  The taillights grew farther away evenas he put on a burst of speed, the branches whipping his face, though hebarely noticed.  He was a machine, a running machine, a track star onceagain, and he would not let that truck get away, and as he tore down thedirt road that connected with the path from the cabin he thought, Didthey hear a noise in the cabin?  Were they planning a break-and-enterbut were frightened away?  and he kept on going, faster and faster, andthe red lights grew smaller and smaller, the truck getting away fromhim, and then he knew that he'd never catch it.  The truck was gone.  Heturned around, headed back toward the cabin, suddenly remembering theRange Rover.  He could try to chase them down in the Rover!  There wereonly two directions the truck could have gone; he could race after themin his vehicle.  He ran back down the path toward the cabin, and wassuddenly jolted by a tremendous, ear-splitting explosion in front ofhim, coming from the cabin, an explosion that turned the night skyorange and red like a giant Roman candle, and then he saw with terrorthat the cabin was ablaze, a ball of fire.CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.Washington, D.C.The zipper on Anna's garment bag snagged on one of her dresses just asthe taxi arrived and honked impatiently."All right, all right," she groaned.  "Cool it."She yanked at the zipper again, with no luck.  Then the telephone rang."Good God!"She was late, trying to get to Reagan National Airport to catch theevening flight to Zurich.  No time to get the phone.  She decided to letthe voice mail answer it; then she changed her mind."Agent Navarro, forgive me for calling you at home."  She recognized thehigh, hoarse voice at once, though she'd only spoken to him once before."I got your home number from Sergeant Arsenault.  It's Denis Weese fromthe Chemistry Section of the Nova Scotia Forensic Laboratory."He spoke excruciatingly slowly.  "Yes," she said impatiently, "thetoxicologist.  What's up?""Well, the ocular fluid you asked me to look at?"She finally worked the fabric of her dress loose from the zipper'steeth.  She tried not to think of how much the dress had cost.  Damagehad been done, but maybe it wouldn't be too noticeable.  "You findanything?""It's most interesting."  The taxi's honking grew more insistent."Can you hold on a second?"  she said, then dropped the phone to thecarpet and ran to the window.  "I'll be down in a few minutes," sheshouted.The driver yelled up, "Navarro?  You called for a taxi?""You can put the meter on.  I'll be down in a few."  She ran back topick up the phone.  "Sorry.  The ocular fluid, you said.""The band showed up on electrofluoresis," the toxicologist went on."It's not a naturally occurring protein.  It's a peptide, a sort offolded chain of amino acids--"She dropped the garment bag to the floor.  "Some synthetic compound, isthat what you're saying?"  Not a naturally occurring protein. Somethingthat was created in a laboratory.  What could this mean?"One that selectively binds to neuro receptors  That explains why wedidn't find any traces of it in the bloodstream.  It can only bedetected, in trace quantities, in the spinal and ocular fluid.""Meaning it goes right to the brain, basically.""Well, yes.""What kind of compound are we talking here?""It's an exotic.  I guess the closest thing to it found in nature is avenom peptide, like snake venom.  But the molecule's clearly synthetic.""It's a poison, then.""An entirely new molecule, one of the new toxins that scientists are nowable to synthesize.  I'm guessing that what it does is induce cardiacarrest.  It goes right to the brain, crossing the blood-brain barrier,but leaves no traces in the blood serum.  Really quite something."An entirely new molecule."Let me ask you something.  What do you think this toxin is intended tobe used for?  Biological warfare?"He laughed uneasily.  "No, no, no, nothing of the sort.  One does seesuch synthetic peptides created, sort of modeled, on naturally occurringpoisons found in toads or snails or snakes or whatever, in basic biotechresearch.  You see, the fact that they selectively bind to certainproteins makes them useful for tagging them.  It's the same propertythat makes them toxic, but that's not why people concoct them.""So this this substance might have been made by a biotechnologycompany.""Or any company with a research arm in molecular biochemistry.  Could beany of the big agricultural firms, too.  Monsanto, Archer DanielsMidland, you name it.  I don't know where this was created, of course.""I'm going to ask you a favor," she said.  "I'm going to ask you to faxwhatever you got on this to this number, O.K.?"  She gave him a faxnumber, thanked him, hung up, and called the I.C.U.  If she missed theplane, so be it.  Right now nothing was more important than this."Can you patch me in to whoever has liaison with the U.S. PatentOffice?"  she said.  When she'd been put through, she said, "AgentStanley, this is Agent Anna Navarro.  I need you to check something forme real quick and get back to me.  In a couple of minutes you're goingto get a fax from the Nova Scotia Forensic Laboratory.  It's adescription of a synthetic molecule.  I need you to do a search for meat the U.S. Patent Office.  I want to know if any company has filed apatent for this thing."Find out who makes it, and you'll find the killer.  One will lead to theother.She hoped it would be that simple.The taxi driver was honking again, and she went to the window to tellhim to cool his jets.SwitzerlandVirtually catatonic, Ben drove to Zurich.  Back into the lion's den, hethought ruefully to himself.  Yes, he was persona non grata there, butit was a city of nearly four hundred thousand; he'd make out so long ashe kept a low profile and avoided any tripwires.  And where would thosebe?  It was a risk, a definite, calculated risk, but there was no reasonto believe that safe refuge lay elsewhere.  Liesl had quoted Peter'swarning words: the question isn't where they are, it's where theyaren't.Oh, God.  Liesl!  The odor of wood smoke that permeated his clothes wasa wrenching, steady reminder of her, of the once-comfortable cabin, ofthe explosion he had witnessed but could scarcely comprehend.The one thing he clung to, the one thing that allowed him to keep hissanity, was that Liesl had probably been dead when the cabin had burstinto flames.Oh, Christ!By now he had put together how it had happened; it all made a chillingkind of sense.  The squeaking he had heard in the middle of the night,which had incorporated itself into his terrible dream, had come from thevalve of the propane tank being turned all the way open.  The cabin hadquickly filled with the odorless propane--he had already stepped outsideby then--which was intended to overwhelm, put to sleep, then kill theoccupants of the cabin.  To cover up the evidence, a timed fuse hadsomehow gone off.  Certainly it hadn't taken much to ignite the highlyflammable gas.  The accident would be ascribed by the local authoritiesto a faulty propane tank, not an uncommon hazard in rural areas.And then whoever had done it had gotten into his truck and stolen away.By the time Ben returned to the Range Rover a matter of seconds, really,after the explosion the cabin was pretty much gone.She had not suffered.  She had surely been either asleep or dead beforeher little cabin became an inferno.He couldn't stand to think of it!For four years Liesl and Peter had lived there, lived their lives inhiding, surely always fearful, but fundamentally undisturbed.  Probablythey could have gone on living there for years.Until Ben had shown up in Zurich.And brought out these zealots, in effect luring Peter to his death.And led these faceless, anonymous zealots to Liesl, the woman who hadonce saved Peter's life.Ben was beyond grief.  He no longer felt the sharp stab of guilt,because he was numb.  He felt nothing anymore.  The shock had turned himinto a cadaver, driving through the night, staring straight ahead, amachine without emotions.But as he approached the darkened city, he began to feel one singleemotion: a slowly growing, burning anger.  A fury at those who hadtargeted innocent and good people who'd done nothing wrong but comeacross a bit of information by accident.These killers, and those who directed them, remained faceless in hismind.  He could not picture them, but he was determined to unmask them.They wanted him dead; they intended to frighten him into silence.  Butinstead of running away, instead of hiding, he had made up his mind torun toward them, though from a direction they could not anticipate. Theywanted to operate from the shadows; he would shine light on them. Theywanted to conceal; he would expose.And if his father was one of them ... He needed to dig into the pastnow, to excavate, to learn who these murderers were, and where they camefrom, and above all what they were hiding.  Ben knew the rationalresponse was to be frightened, and though that he certainly was, hisfear was now subordinate to his rage.He knew he had crossed some line into an obsession beyond anyrationality.But who were these faceless attackers?Men who had been mobilized by the board of the corporation Max Hartmanhad helped set up.  Madmen?  Fanatics?  Or simply mercenaries, hired bya corporation that had been founded, decades ago, by a group ofprominent industrialists and high-ranking Nazis--among them his ownfather--who were now trying to conceal the unlawful origins of theiroriginal wealth?  Cold-blooded mercenaries without any ideology exceptthe profit motive, the almighty dollar, the Deutschmark, the Swissfranc... There were layers upon layers of interlocking possibilities.He needed cold hard information.Ben vaguely remembered being told that one of Switzerland's greatresearch libraries was at the University of Zurich, in the hillsoverlooking the city, and that was where he now headed, the logicalplace to begin digging up the past.Washington, D.C.Anna watched queasily as the flight attendant demonstrated the flimsything you put over your nose and mouth to help you breathe if the planegoes down.  She'd once read an article in one of those on-line magazinesthat said that nobody had ever survived an emergency water landing of anairplane.  Never.  She took a pharmacy bottle of Ativan from her purse.It was beyond the expiration date, but she didn't particularly care.This was the only way she was going to make it across the Atlantic.She was startled to hear her I.C.U-issue StarT ac trilling from deep inthe recesses of her purse.  Government-standard crypto telephony andhardly bulkier than the usual consumer model.  She'd forgot to turn itoff.She pulled it out.  "Navarro.""Please hold for Alan Bartlett," she heard in a lightly accentedJamaican voice.She felt a tap on her shoulder.  It was a flight attendant.  "I'm sorry,ma'am," he said.  "You're not allowed to have any cellular phones turnedon during the flight.""We're not flying yet," Anna pointed out."Agent Navarro," Bartlett said.  "I'm glad I caught you.""Ma'am," the flight attendant persisted, "airline regulations forbid youfrom using cell phones once the aircraft has left the gate.""Sorry, this'll just be a minute."  To Bartlett she said, "What have yougot for me?  I'm on a plane to Zurich.""Ma'am," the flight attendant said loudly, exasperated.Without looking at him she took out her Justice Department ID with herfree hand and flashed it at him."We lost another one," Bartlett said.Another one?  So soon?  The murders were accelerating.The flight attendant drew back.  "My apologies, ma'am.""You're kidding me," Anna groaned."In Holland.  A town called Tilburg, a couple of hours south ofAmsterdam.  You might want to change planes in Zurich and go there.""No," she said.  "I'm going to Zurich.  It's a simple matter for me tohave the FBI legal in Amsterdam request an immediate autopsy.  This timeat least we can tell them exactly what poisons to screen for.""Is that right?""I'm on my way to Zurich, Director.  I'm going to catch myself a liveone.  Dead men don't talk.  Now, what was the name of the Tilburgvictim?"Bartlett paused.  "A certain Hendrik Korsgaard.""Wait a minute!"  Anna said sharply.  "That name wasn't on my list."There was silence on the other end."Talk to me, Bartlett, dammit!""There are other lists, Agent Navarro," Bartlett said slowly.  "I washoping they wouldn't prove ... relevant.""Unless I'm greatly mistaken, this is a violation of our understanding,Director Bartlett," Anna said quietly, her eyes darting around to verifythat she wasn't being overheard."Not at all, Ms.  Navarro.  My office works like any other, by adivision of labor.  Information is edited accordingly.  Yourresponsibility was to find the killers.  We had reason to believe thatthe names on the list I gave you, from the clearance files, were beingtargeted.  We had no reason to believe that... the others were injeopardy as well.""And did you know where the Tilburg victim resided?""We didn't even know he was still living.  Certainly, all efforts tolocate him were in vain.""Then we can rule out the possibility that the killers have simplygained access to your files.""It's gone far beyond that," Bartlett said crisply.  "Whoever's killingthese old men, they've got better sources than we do."It was not much past four in the morning by the time Ben located theUniversitatsbibliothek on Zahringerplatz.  The library wouldn't open foranother five hours.In New York, he calculated, it was ten at night.  His father wouldprobably still be awake he usually went to bed late and arose early,always had and even if he were asleep, Ben wasn't much concerned aboutwaking him.  Not anymore.Wandering down the Universitatstrasse to stretch his legs, he made surehis cell phone was switched to the GSM standard used in Europe andplaced a call to Bedford.The housekeeper, Mrs.  Walsh, answered.Mrs.  Walsh, an Irish version of Mrs.  Danvers from Rebecca, Ben hadalways thought, had worked for the family for over twenty years, and Benhad never got past her haughty reserve."Benjamin," she said.  Her tone was strange."Good evening, Mrs.  Walsh," Ben said wearily.  "I need to talk to myfather."  He readied himself to do battle with his father's gatekeeper."Benjamin, your father's gone."He went cold.  "Gone where?""Well, that's just it, I don't know.""Who does?""No one.  A car came for Mr.  Hartman this morning, and he wouldn't saywhere he was going.  Not a word.  He said it would be 'a while."  ""A car?  Was it Gianni?"  Gianni was his father's regular driver, ahappy go-lucky sort whom the old man regarded with a certain distancedaffection."Not Gianni.  Not a company car.  He's just gone.  No explanation.""I don't understand.  He's never done that before, has he?""Never.  I know he packed his passport, because it's gone.""His passport?  Well, that tells us something, doesn't it?""But I called his office, talked to his secretary, and she knew nothingabout any international trip.  I was hoping he might have said somethingto you.""Not a word.  Did he get any phone calls ... ?""No, I don't... Let me look at the message book."  She came back to thephone a minute later.  "Just a Mr.  Godwin.""Godwin?""Well, actually, it says Professor Godwin."The name took him by surprise.  That had to be Ben's college mentor, thePrinceton historian John Barnes Godwin.  Then again, he realized, itwasn't particularly bizarre for Godwin to be calling Max: a few yearsago, impressed by what Ben had told him about the famous historian, Maxhad given money to Princeton to set up a Center for the Study of HumanValues, of which Godwin became the director.  Yet his father hadn'tmentioned Godwin.  Why were the two of them talking on the morningbefore Max disappeared?"Let me have the number," he said.He thanked her and clicked off.Strange, he thought.  For a brief moment he imagined that his father wasfleeing somewhere, because he knew his past had been uncovered or wasabout to be uncovered.  But that made no sense fleeing what? Fleeingwhere?Ben was exhausted and emotionally depleted, and he knew he was notthinking clearly.  He badly needed sleep.  He was making connections nowthat weren't quite logical.He thought: Peter knew things, things about their father's past, about acompany Max had helped set up, and then Peter was killed.And then ... And then I found a photograph of the founders of thiscorporation, my father among them.  And I followed to Liesl and Peter'scabin, and I found a page from the incorporation document setting thiscompany up.  And then they'd tried to kill both me and Liesl and coverup the evidence by blowing up the cabin.So is it possible that they... again, the faceless, anonymous They ...had gotten to my father, informed him that the secret was out, thesecret of his past, or maybe the secret of this strange corporation? Orboth?Yes, of course it was possible.  Since They seem to be trying toeliminate anyone who knows about this company... Why else had Maxdisappeared so suddenly, so mysteriously?Might he have been compelled to go somewhere, to meet with certainpeople... There was only one thing Ben felt sure of: that his father'ssudden disappearance was in some way connected with the murders of Peterand Liesl, and with the uncovering of this document.He returned to the Range Rover, noticed in the light of the rising sunthe deep scratches that defaced its sides, and drove back toZahringerplatz.  Then he settled back in the Rover and placed a call toPrinceton, New Jersey."Professor Godwin?"The old professor sounded as if he'd been asleep."It's Ben Hartman."John Barnes Godwin, historian of Europe in the twentieth century andonce Princeton's most popular lecturer, had been retired for years.  Hewas eighty-two but still came into his office every day to work.An image of Godwin came into Ben's mind--tall and gaunt, white haired,the deeply wrinkled face.Godwin had been not just Ben's faculty adviser but a sort of fatherfigure as well.  Ben remembered once sitting in Godwin's book-chokedoffice in Dickinson Hall.  The amber light, the vanilla-mildew smell ofold books.They'd been talking about how FOR managed to maneuver the isolationistUnited States into the Second World War.  Ben was writing his seniorthesis about FDR and had told Godwin that he was offended by Roosevelt'strickery."Ah, Mr.  Hartman," Godwin replied.  That was what he called Ben inthose days.  "How is your Latin?  Honesta turpitudo est pro causa bona.nBen looked at the professor blankly." "For a good cause,"" Godwin translated with a slow, sly smile, "'wrongdoing is virtuous."  Publilius Syrus, who lived in Rome a centurybefore Christ, and said a lot of smart things.""I don't think I agree," Ben said, the morally indignant undergraduate."To me that sounds like a rationalization for screwing people over.  Ihope I never catch myself saying that."Godwin regarded him with what seemed to be puzzlement.  "I supposethat's why you refuse to join your father's business," he saidpointedly.  "You'd rather be pure.""I'd rather teach.""But why are you so sure you want to teach?"  Godwin had asked, sippingtawny port."Because I love it.""You're certain?""No," Ben admitted.  "How can a twenty-year-old be certain of anything?""Oh, I find that twenty-year-olds are certain of most things.""But why should I go into something I have no interest in, working in acompany my father built, to make even more money that I don't need?  Imean, what good does our money do for society?  Why should I have greatwealth while others have no food on the table?"Godwin closed his eyes.  "It's a luxury to thumb your nose at money.I've had some extremely rich students, even a Rockefeller, in my class.And they all struggle with this same dilemma not to let the money ruleyour life or define you, but, instead, to do something meaningful withyour life.  Now, your father is one of our nation's greatphilanthropists ""Yeah, wasn't it Reinhold Niebuhr who said that philanthropy is a formof paternalism?  The privileged class tries to preserve its status bydoling out funds to the needy?"Godwin glanced up, impressed.  Ben tried not to smile.  He'd just readthis in his theology class, and the line had stuck in his mind."A question, Ben.  Is becoming a grade school teacher actually your wayof rebelling against your father?""Maybe so," Ben said, unwilling to lie.  He wanted to add that it wasGodwin who had inspired him to teach, but that might sound too ...something.He was surprised when Godwin replied, "Bully for you.  That takes guts.And you'll be a great teacher, I have no doubt of it."Now, Ben said, "I'm sorry to be calling you so late ""Not at all, Ben.  Where are you?  The connection ""Switzerland.  Listen, my father's disappeared ""What do you mean, 'disappeared'?""He left home this morning, went somewhere, we don't know where, and Iwas wondering because you called him this morning, just before that...""I was returning his call, really.  He wanted to talk about another giftto the center he was planning to make.""That's it?""I'm afraid so.  Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as I can recall.But if he happens to call me again, is there a way I can get in touchwith you?"Ben gave Godwin his digital number.  "Another question.  Do you knowanyone on the faculty of the University of Zurich?  Someone who doeswhat you do modern European history."Godwin paused for a moment.  "At the University of Zurich?  You can't doany better than Carl Mercandetti.  A first-class researcher. Economichistory's his specialty, but he's very wide-ranging in the best Europeantradition.  The fellow also has an astounding collection of grappa,though I suppose that's neither here nor there.  Regardless,Mercandetti's your man.""I appreciate it," Ben said, and he hung up.Then he put the car seat back and tried to doze for a few hours.He slept fitfully, his sleep disturbed by unceasing nightmares in whichhe was forced to see the cabin explode time and again.When he awoke at a few minutes after nine, he saw in the rearview mirrorhow unshaven and dirty he looked, saw the deep circles under his eyes,but he didn't have what it took to find a place to shave and wash.There wasn't any time in any case.It was time to begin excavating a past that was no longer the past.CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.ParisOnly a small brass plaque marked the office of Groupe TransEuroTech SA,on the third floor of a limestone building on the avenue Marceau in theeighth arrondissement.  The plaque, mounted on the stone to the left ofthe front door, was but one of seven brass plaques bearing the names oflaw firms and other small companies, and as such it attracted littleattention.The office of TransEuroTech never received unscheduled visitors, butanyone who happened to pass by the third floor would see nothing out ofthe ordinary: a young male receptionist sitting behind a glass teller'swindow made of a bullet-resistant polycarbonate material that lookedlike plain glass.  Behind him, a small, bare room furnished with a fewmolded-plastic chairs, and a single door to the interior offices.No one would, of course, realize that the receptionist was actually anarmed and experienced ex-commando, or see the concealed surveillancecameras, the passive infrared motion detectors, the balanced magneticswitches embedded in every door.The conference room deep inside the offices was actually a room within aroom: a module separated from the surrounding concrete walls byfoot-thick rubber blocks that kept all vibrations (specifically humanspeech) from transferring out.  Immediately adjacent to the conferencemodule was a permanent installation of antennae constantly searching forHF, UHF, VHP, and microwave transmissions--any attempt, that is, tolisten in on the discussions held within the room.  Attached to theantennae was a spectrum analyzer programmed to check across the spectrumfor any anomalies.At one end of a coffin-shaped mahogany conference table sat two men.Their conversation was protected against interception by both whitenoise generators and a "babble tape," which sounded like the yammer of acrowded bar at happy hour.  Anyone somehow able to bypass the elaboratesecurity and listen in would be unable to separate the words of the twomen at the table from the background noise.The older of the two was speaking on a sterile telephone, a flat blackbox of Swiss manufacture.  He was a pasty-faced, worried-looking man inhis mid-fifties with gold-framed glasses, a soft jowly face, oily skin,and receding hair dyed an unnatural russet.  His name was Paul Mar quand and he was a vice president of security for the Corporation. Marquandhad come to the Corporation by a route common to corporate-securitydirectors of international businesses: he had spent time in the Frenchinfantry, was forced out for wild behavior and joined the French ForeignLegion, later moving to the U.S."  where he'd worked as a strikebreakerfor a mining company before he was hired to do corporate security for amultinational firm.Marquand spoke rapidly, quietly, and then hung up the phone.  "ViennaSector is disturbed," Marquand told the man beside him, a dark-haired,olive-skinned Frenchman some twenty years younger named Jean-LucPassard.  "The American survived the propane accident in St.  Gallen."He added darkly, "There can be no more errors.  Not after theBahnhofplatz debacle.""It was not your decision to assign the American soldier," JeanLuc saidsoftly."Of course not, but neither did I object.  The logic was persuasive:he'd spent time in proximity to the subject and could pick the face outof a crowd in a matter of seconds.  No matter how often a stranger isshown a photograph, he could never move as quickly or as reliably assomeone who has known the target personally.""We've now mobilized the very best," Passard said.  "With the Architecton the case, it will not be long before the mess is eliminatedcompletely.""His perfectionism leads to persistence," Marquand observed.  "Still thepampered American is not to be underestimated.""The marvel is that he is still alive, the amateur," Passard agreed."Being a fitness freak does not give one survival skills."  He snortedand spoke mockingly in heavily accented English: "He doesn't know thejungle.  He knows the jungle gym.""All the same," Marquand said, "there is such a thing as beginner'sluck.""He is no longer a beginner," Passard observed.ViennaThe elderly, well-dressed American emerged from the gate, walkingstiffly and slowly, clutching a carry-on bag.  He searched the crowduntil he saw a uniformed limousine driver holding up a little sign withhis name on it.The old man gave a wave of acknowledgment, and the driver, accompaniedby a woman in a white nurse's uniform, hurried up to him.  The drivertook the American's bag, and the nurse said, "How was your flight, sir?"She spoke in English with an Austrian-German accent.The man grumbled, "I despise traveling.  I can't tolerate it anymore."The nurse escorted him through the crowds and to the street immediatelyoutside, where a black Daimler limousine was parked.  She helped himinto the interior, which was equipped with the standard appurtenances--phone, TV, and bar.  Tucked unobtrusively into one corner was an arrayof emergency medical equipment, including a small oxygen tank, hoses andface mask, defibrillator paddles, and IV tubes."Well, sir," the nurse said once he was settled in the deeply cushionedleather seat, "the ride is not long at all, sir."The old man grunted, reclined the seat back, and closed his eyes."Please let me know if there's anything I can do to make you morecomfortable," the nurse said.CHAPTER NINETEEN.ZurichAnna was met at her hotel by a liaison officer from the office of thePublic Prosecutor of the canton of Zurich.  He was Bernard Kesting, asmall, powerfully built, dark-haired young man with a heavy beard andeyebrows that joined in the middle.  Kesting was unsmiling, allbusiness, very professional: the quintessential Swiss bureaucrat.After a few minutes of stilted introductory chat, Kesting led her to hiscar, a BMW 728, parked in the semicircular drive in front of the hotel."Rossignol is of course well known to us," Kesting said, holding the cardoor open for her.  "A revered figure in the banking community, formany, many years.  Certainly my office has never had reason to questionhim."  She got into the car, but he stood there with the car door stillopen.  "I'm afraid the nature of your inquiry was not made clear to us.The gentleman has never been accused of any crime, you know.""I understand."  She reached for the handle and closed the door herself.He made her nervous.Behind the wheel, Kesting continued as he pulled out of the drive andheaded down Steinwlesstrasse, a quiet residential street near theKunsthaus.  "He was, or is, a brilliant financier.""I can't disclose the nature of our investigation," Anna said, "but Ican tell you that he's not the target of it."He was silent for a while, then said with some embarrassment, "You askedabout protective surveillance.  As you know, we haven't been able tolocate him precisely.""And this is customary for prominent Swiss bankers?  To simply...disappear?""Customary?  No.  But then he is retired, after all.  He is entitled tohis eccentricities.""And how are his official communications handled?""Received by a trust, domestic representatives of an offshore entitythat remains, even to them, completely opaque.""Transparency not being a notable Swiss value."Kesting glanced at her quickly, apparently unsure whether she was beingsnide.  "It seems that at some point in the past year or so, he decidedhe wanted to, well, keep a lower profile.  Perhaps he had the delusionthat he was being stalked, pursued--he's in his early nineties, afterall, and mental deterioration can sometimes lead to paranoid fantasies.""And perhaps it wasn't a delusion."Kesting gave her a sharp look but said nothing.Herr Professor Doktor Carl Mercandetti had warmed immeasurably when Benmentioned that he was a friend of Professor John Barnes Godwin.  "Thereis no inconvenience, and nothing to apologize for.  I have an office inthe library.  Why don't you meet me there midmorning?  I'll be thereanyway.  I hope Godwin didn't tell you--I'm supposed to be publishing amonograph as part of a Cambridge University Press series that he'sediting, and already I'm two years late with it!  He tells me my senseof timing is a touch Mediterranean."  Mercandetti's laugh was boomingeven over the phone line.Ben had been vague about what he'd wanted from Mercandetti, andMercandetti, judging from his high jollity, had probably assumed it wasas much by way of a social call as anything.Ben spent the first part of the morning searching through everydirectory of corporations in Switzerland he could find, even running acomputer search of all telephone listings.  But he could find no recordof such a corporation as Sigma AG.  So far as he could see, there was nopublic record that it ever did exist.Carl Mercandetti was more austere-looking in person than Ben hadimagined when they spoke on the telephone.  He was around fifty, slight,with a gray crew cut and oval wire-rimmed glasses.  When Ben introducedhimself, however, the eyes became lively, and his handclasp waswelcoming."Any friend of God's ..."  Mercandetti said."And I thought it was only Princeton undergraduates who called himthat."Mercandetti shook his head, smiling.  "In the years I've known him, I'dsay he's only grown into his nickname.  I'm quite terrified he'll bethere at the pearly gates, saying, "Now, a small query about footnoteforty-three in your last articleAfter a few minutes, Ben mentioned his efforts to track down acorporation named Sigma AGone founded in Zurich toward the end of theSecond World War.  He didn't explain further: the scholar woulddoubtless assume it was the sort of thing that an international bankermight well pursue, perhaps in the course of corporate due diligence. Inany case, Ben knew he would not be ill-served by reticence.When he learned of Ben's immediate concerns, Mercandetti was polite butunengaged.  The name Sigma clearly meant little to him."You say it was established in 1945?"  the historian asked."That's right.""A magnificent year for Bordeaux, did you know that?"  He shrugged. "Ofcourse, we're talking well over half a century ago.  Many companies thatwere founded during the war, or right after, failed.  Our economy wasnot so good as it is now.""I have reason to believe it still exists," Ben said.Mercandetti cocked his head good-naturedly.  "What sort of informationdo you have?""It's not solid information, really.  It's more along the lines of of,well, people talking.  People in a position to know."Mercandetti seemed amused and skeptical.  "Do these people have any moreinformation?  The name could easily have been changed.""But isn't there some record somewhere of corporate name changes?"The historian's eyes scanned the vaulted ceiling of the library."There's a place you might check.  It's called the Handelsregisteramtdes Kantons Zurich the registry of all corporations founded in Zurich.All companies established here must file papers with the registry.""All right.  And let me ask you something else.  This list here."  Heslid the list of directors of Sigma AG, which he had recopied in his ownhand, across the sturdy oak table.  "Do you recognize any of thesenames?"Mercandetti put on a pair of reading glasses.  "Most of these names theyare names of well-known industrialists, you know.  Prosperi, here, is asort of underworld figure I think he just died, just recently.  InBrazil or Paraguay, I forget which.  These men are mostly dead or veryancient by now.  Oh, and Gaston Rossignol, the banker he must live inZurich.""Is he still alive?""I haven't heard otherwise.  But if he's alive he must be in hiseighties or nineties.""Is there a way to find out?""Have you tried the telephone book?"  An amused look."There were a handful of Rossignols.  None of them with the right firstinitial."Mercandetti shrugged.  "Rossignol was a major financier.  Helped restorethe solidity of our banking system after the Second World War. He hadmany friends here.  But perhaps has retired to the Cap d'Antibes, and isslathering coconut oil on his liver-spotted shoulders even as we speak.Or perhaps he now seeks to avoid any sort of attention, for some reasonof his own.  With the recent controversies over Swiss gold and theSecond World War, there have been agitators, some of them vigilantes.Even a Swiss banker cannot live in a vault, of course.  So one takesprecautions."One takes precautions.  "Thanks," he said.  "This is extremely helpful."Now he pulled out the black-and-white photograph he'd taken from theHandelsbank and handed it to the academic.  "Do any of these men lookfamiliar?""I don't know if you are a banker, at heart, or a history buff,"Mercandetti said merrily.  "Or a dealer in old photographs quite a tradethese days.  Collectors pay fortunes for nineteenth-century tintypes.Not my sort of thing at all.  Give me color any day.""This isn't exactly a vacation snap," Ben said mildly.Mercandetti smiled and picked up the photo.  "That must be Cyrus Westonyes, with his trademark hat," he said.  He pointed with a stubby finger."That looks like Avery Henderson, dead many years.  This is Emil Menard,who built Trianon, really the first modern conglomerate. This may beRossignol, but I'm not sure.  One always imagines him with his greatbald dome, not this thatch of dark hair, but he was a much younger manhere.  And over here..."  A minute passed in silence before Mercandettidropped the photo.  His smile had vanished.  "What sort of prank isthis?"  he asked Ben, looking at him over his reading glasses. A bemusedexpression crossed his face."How do you mean?""This must be some sort of montage, something involving trickphotography."  The academic spoke with a trace of annoyance."Why do you say that?  Surely Weston and Henderson were acquainted.""Weston and Henderson?  Surely they were.  And surely they were never inthe same place as Sven Norquist, the Norwegian shipping magnate, andCecil Benson, the British automotive magnate, and Drake Parker, the headof the petrochemical giant, and Wolfgang Siebing, the Germanindustrialist, whose family company once made military equipment and nowis best known for its coffee makers  And a dozen more of their ilk. Someof these men were arch rivals some in completely different lines ofenterprise.  To posit that all these people had met--now that wouldinvolve rewriting twentieth-century business history, for a start.""Couldn't this have been a sort of mid-century economic conference, likeDavos?"  Ben ventured.  "A precursor to the Bilderberg conferences,maybe?  Some meeting of the corporate titans?"The historian pointed to another figure.  "This can only be someone'sidea of a joke.  A very cleverly doctored image.""Who's that you're pointing at?""That, of course, is Gerhard Lenz, the Viennese scientist."Mercandetti's tone was hard.The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Ben wasn't sure in what contexthe knew it.  "Who is he again?""Was.  He died in South America.  Dr.  Gerhard Lenz, a brilliant mind,by all accounts, was not to mention the product of Vienna's finestmedical training, the epitome of Viennese civilization.  Sorry, I'mbeing sarcastic, and that doesn't suit a historian.  The fact is thatLenz, like his friend Josef Mengele, was infamous in his own right forhis experiments on concentration camp prisoners, on crippled children.He was already in his late forties when the war ended.  His son stilllives in Vienna."My God.  Gerhard Lenz was one of the twentieth century's great monsters.Ben felt lightheaded.  Gerhard Lenz, a light-eyed Nazi officer, wasstanding immediately next to Max Hartman.Mercandetti fished an 8x loupe from a jacket pocket--he regularly had toresort to magnification in his archival research, Ben guessed--andscrutinized the image.  Then he examined the yellowed card stock onwhich the emulsion was fixed.  After a few minutes, he shook his head."Indeed, it looks real.  And yet it is not possible.  It cannot bereal."  Mercandetti spoke with quiet vehemence, and Ben wondered whetherhe was mostly trying to persuade himself.  For even as he denied theevidence of his eyes, the historian looked ashen.  "Tell me," he said,and now his tone was brittle, all traces of bonhomie having evaporated."Where did you get this?"One takes precautions.  Gaston Rossignol was alive: the death of soaugust a figure would not have passed without notice.  And yet afteranother hour of research, Mercandetti and he came up empty-handed.  "Iapologize for a fruitless search," Mercandetti said resignedly.  "Butthen I am a historian, not a private detective.  Besides, I would haveimagined that this sort of thing would be down your alley, given yourfamiliarity with financial stratagems."The academic was right; it should have occurred to Ben already.  WhatMercandetti was alluding to--financial stratagems, he called it--went bythe name of asset protection, and it was something Ben had somefamiliarity with.  Now it was his turn to sit back and think. Prominentmen do not simply disappear; they create legal edifices behind which toshelter.  The task of hiding one's place of residence from pursuers wasnot so unlike the task of hiding it from creditors or from the taxationpowers of the state.  Rossignol would want to retain control of hispossessions while seeming to have been divested of them. It would not beeasy to keep tabs on a man without property.Ben Hartman recalled a particularly miserly client of Hartman CapitalManagement, who had an obsession with asset protection schemes.  Bencame to dislike the man with a passion, but as much as he begrudged thetime he'd spent working on the miser's account, Ben realized that whathe'd learned about the subterfuges of "asset protection" would now comein handy.  "Gaston Rossignol must have blood relatives in the area," Bensaid to Carl Mercandetti.  "I'm thinking of someone both reliable andcompliant.  Someone close enough to do his bidding, but decidedlyyounger than he is."  In any variant of a gift-leaseback scheme, Benknew, it was an undesirable complication to be predeceased by the pseudobeneficiary.  And the clandestinity of any scheme depended upon thediscretion of the enlisted partner."You're talking about Yves-Alain, of course," the professor said."Am I?""You've just described him.  Yves-Alain Taille, the banker's nephew.A civic leader here of some distinction, thanks to his family'sprominence, and a banker of no distinction at all, thanks to hisintellectual mediocrity.  Weak but well-meaning is the general consensuson him.  Used to chair the Zurich Arts Council or some such. He has asinecure at one of the private banks, a vice president of something orother.  Easy enough to find out.""And if I wanted to find out whether Taille had title to property in thecanton besides his primary residence?  Aren't there public tax documentsin connection to estate transfers?""There are municipal records in the Rathaus, just off the Limmat.  Butif it's a recent title transfer, from the past five years, you can do anonline search.  The same with the tax documents you seek.  They'resupposedly public documents, but they're kept on a secure server,honoring one of the two great Swiss passions those being for chocolateand for secrecy.  I myself have a user ID and password that will provideaccess.  Not so long ago, you see, the town fathers hired me to writesomething for a brochure to mark the six hundred and fiftiethanniversary of Zurich's joining the Swiss Confederation.  A bit morelocal than my usual research, but they were openhanded with the francs."An hour later, Ben had an address, a residence decidedly more modestthan Rossignol had formerly inhabited.  Two hours later, after immersinghimself in a series of tax documents of astounding intricacy, he hadsatisfied himself that it was Gaston Rossignol's.  For one thing, thetitle was in Taille's name, and yet it was not his primary residence.  Acountry house?  No one would have one in Zurich proper. A pied-a-terrefor a mistress?  But it was too grand for that.  And what of thereal-estate investment trust that maintained co-management privileges?Taille did not enjoy unilateral control over the property's disposition;he could not sell it or transfer the title without permission of thetrust.  And where was the trust headquartered?  In one of the ChannelIslands, Jersey.  Ben smiled. Nicely done a tax haven but not one of thetruly infamous ones.  It wasn't as notorious as Nauru, but its bankingestablishment was even more tightly knit, more difficult to penetrate.Ben glanced again at the address he had jotted down.  It was incredibleto think that a brief car ride would take him to one of Sigma'sfounders.  Peter had tried to hide from Sigma, and it had destroyed him.Ben took a deep breath, and felt his stores of anger burn within him.Well, there's been a change of plans, he thought.  Now let Sigma try tohide from me.CHAPTER TWENTY.Ben found Gaston Rossignol's house in the area of Zurich calledHottingen, a steep, hilly area overlooking the city.  The houses herewere situated on large lots and hidden by trees: very private, verysecluded.Rossignol's house was on Hauserstrasse, close to the Dolder Grand Hotel,the grande dame of Zurich hotels, generally considered the finest in allof Europe.  The house was wide and low-slung, built of brownish stoneapparently in the early part of the century.It didn't look like any kind of safe house, Ben reflected, but perhapsthat was what made it so effective.  Rossignol had grown up in Zurich,but spent much of his career in Bern.  He knew certain Zurichers ofpower and influence, of course, but it was not a place where he hadcasual acquaintances.  Besides, the residents of the Hauserstrasse werethe sort who kept to themselves; this was a neighborhood withoutneighborliness.  An old man who cultivated his own garden would neverattract notice.  It would be a comfortable life, but an effectivelyobscure one, too.Ben parked the Range Rover on an incline down the block and set theemergency brake to keep it from rolling.  He opened the glovecompartment and took out Liesl's revolver.  There were four shellsremaining in the chamber.  He would have to buy more ammunitionsomewhere if he wanted to use the weapon for protection.  Making surethe safety was engaged, he slipped it into his jacket pocket.He rang the doorbell.  There was no answer, and after a few minutes, herang again.Still no answer.He tried the knob, but the door was locked.He noticed a late-model Mercedes parked in the carport at one side ofthe house.  Rossignol's car or someone else's, he couldn't know.He turned to leave when it occurred to him to try all the doors, and hewent around the side of the house.  The lawn was newly mown, flowergardens well tended.  Someone took good care of the property.  The backof the house was grander than the front, a large sweep of land borderedby more flower gardens, bathed by the morning sun.  A cupola sat in themiddle of a large terrace at the back of the house, near an arrangementof deck chairs.Ben approached the back entrance.  He pulled open a glass storm door andthen tried the knob.The knob turned.He opened the door, his heart hammering, and braced for an alarm to gooff, but heard none.Was Rossignol here?  Or anyone else, a servant, a housekeeper, family?He entered the house, into a dark, tiled mud room.  A few coats hung onhooks, along with an assortment of wooden canes with ornamental handles.Passing through the mud room, he entered what looked like a study, asmall room furnished with a large desk, a few bookcases. GastonRossignol, once the pillar of Switzerland's banking establishment,seemed to be a man of relatively modest tastes.On the desk was a green blotter pad, next to it a sleek black Panasonictelephone with modern gimmicks built in: conference, caller ID,intercom, speakerphone, digital answering machine.As he was staring at the phone, it rang.  It was ear-splittingly loud,the ringer turned up to maximum volume.  He froze, expecting Rossignolto enter, wondering how he would explain himself.  It rang again, threetimes, four, then stopped.He waited.No one had picked up.  Did that mean no one was home?  He glanced at thecaller ID screen, saw that the number was a long series of digits,obviously long distance.He decided to move on farther into the house.  As he walked down acorridor, he heard faint music playing Bach, it sounded like but wherewas it coming from?Was someone in fact home?From the far end of the hall he saw the glow of light coming from aroom.  He approached, and the music grew louder.Now he entered what he immediately recognized as a formal dining room, along table in the center of the room covered with a crisp white linentablecloth and set with a silver coffeepot on a silver tray, a singleplace setting at which was a plate of eggs and sausage.  Breakfastappeared to have been served by a housekeeper, but where was he or she?A portable tape-player on a buffet against one wall was playing a Bachcello suite.And sitting at the table, his back to Ben, was an old man in awheelchair.  A tanned bald head, fringed with gray, a bull neck, roundshoulders.The old man didn't seem to have heard Ben entering.  He was probablyhard of hearing, Ben decided, a guess confirmed by the hearing aid inthe old man's right ear.Still, taking no chances, he slid his hand into the front pocket of hisleather jacket, felt the bulk of the revolver, pulled it out, andreleased the safety.  The old man didn't move.  He had to be seriouslydeaf, or his hearing aid was turned off.Suddenly Ben was jolted by the ring of the telephone, just as loud inhere as it had been in the study a minute ago.Yet the old man didn't move.It rang again, a third time, a fourth, and stopped.Then he heard a man's voice coming from down the hall, the tone frantic.After a moment, Ben realized that the voice was coming from theanswering machine, but he couldn't make out what it was saying.He took a few steps closer, then placed the barrel of the revolveragainst the old man's head.  "Don't move."The old man's head fell forward, lolling on his chest.Ben grabbed the arm of the wheelchair with his free hand and spun itaround.The old man's chin was on his chest, the eyes wide and staring at thefloor.  Lifeless.Ben's body flooded with panic.He felt the food on the plate.  The eggs and sausage were still warm.Apparently Rossignol had died just moments ago.  Had he been killed?If so, the killer could be in the house right now!He raced down the corridor from which he had come, and the telephonerang again.  In the study, he looked at the caller ID screen: the samelong series of digits, beginning with 431.  Where was the call from? Thenumbers were familiar.  A country in Europe, he felt sure.The answering machine came on."Gaston?  Gaston?"  a man's voice shouted.The words were in French, but spoken by a foreigner, and Ben could makeout few of the heavily accented words.Who was calling Rossignol, and why?Another ring: the doorbell!He raced to the back entrance, which he'd left partially open.  No onewas there.Move it!He stepped outside and ran around the side of the house, slowing when hegot near the front.  From behind some tall shrubbery, he could see awhite police cruiser passing slowly by, patrolling the neighborhood, heguessed.A low wrought-iron fence separated Rossignol's yard from the neighbor's.He raced to the low fence, and leaped over it into the neighbor's yard,which was roughly the same size as Rossignol's, though not as ornatelylandscaped.  He was taking an enormous chance of being spotted by anyonein the neighbor's house, but no one called out to him, there were noshouts, and he kept running, around the far side of the house and out toHauserstrasse.  A hundred feet or so down the street was the Rover.  Heran to it, leaped in, and keyed the ignition. It roared to life.He made a quick U-turn and then drove down the steep street,deliberately slowing his pace to that of a local driving to work.Someone had just tried to call Rossignol.  Someone calling from a placewhose telephone number began 431.The digits tumbled around in his brain until something clicked.Vienna, Austria.The call had come from Vienna.  These men have successors, heirs, Lieslhad said.  One of them, Mercandetti had told him, resided in Vienna: theson of the monster Gerhard Lenz.  With Rossignol dead, it was as logicala lead to follow as any.  Not a certainty far from a certainty but atleast a possibility.  A possible lead when there was a paucity of leads.In a few minutes he had arrived in the heart of the city, near theBahnhofplatz, where Jimmy Cavanaugh had tried to kill him.  Where it hadall begun.He had to get on the next train to Vienna.The Austrian AlpsThere was a soft knock on the door, and the old man called outirritably, "Yes?"A physician in a white coat entered, a short, rotund man with roundshoulders and a potbelly."How is everything, sir?"  the physician asked.  "How is your suite?""You call this a suite?"  Patient Eighteen asked.  He lay atop thenarrow single bed, fully dressed in his rumpled three-piece suit. "It'sa god damned monk's cell."Indeed, the room was simply furnished, with only a chair, a desk, areading lamp, and a television set.  The stone floor was bare.The physician smiled wanly.  "I am Dr.  Lofquist," he said, sitting inthe chair beside the bed.  "I would like to welcome you, but I must alsowarn you.  This will be a very rigorous and difficult ten days. You willbe put through the most extensive physical and mental tests you haveever had."Patient Eighteen did not bother to sit up.  "Why the hell the mental?""Because, you see, not everyone is eligible.""What happens if you think I'm crazy?""Anyone not invited to join is sent home with our regrets."The patient said nothing."Perhaps you should take a rest, sir.  This afternoon will be tiring.There will be a CAT scan, a chest X-ray, then a series of cognitivetests.  And, of course, a standard test for depression."I'm not depressed," the patient snapped.The doctor ignored him.  "Tonight you will be required to fast, so thatwe may accurately measure plasma cholesterol, triglycerides,lipoproteins, and so on.""Fast?  You mean starve?  I'm not starving myself!"  "Sir," the doctorsaid, rising, "you are free to go any time you wish.  If you stay, andif you are invited to join us, you will find the procedure to be lengthyand quite painful, I must be honest.  But it will be like nothing youhave ever experienced in your long life.  Ever.  This I promise you."Kesting did not conceal his surprise when Anna returned several hourslater with an address; and in truth Anna shared a measure of thatsurprise.  She had done what she'd determined to do, and it had worked.After a few readings of the Rossignol file, she had come up with onename that could be of help: that of a Zurich civil servant named DanielTaine.  The name recurred in several different contexts, and furtherinquiries had confirmed her intuition.  Gaston Rossignol had beenTaine's first employer, and, it appeared, something of a mentor.  In theseventies, Taine and Rossignol were partners in a limited liabilityventure involving high-yield Eurobonds.  Rossignol had sponsored Taine'sapplication to the Kifkintler Society, a men's club whose membershipincluded many of Zurich's most powerful citizens.  Now Taine, havingmade his small fortune, served in various honorific capacities in thecanton.  He was someone with precisely the sort of access and resourcesto ensure that his old mentor's plans ran smoothly.Anna had dropped in on Taine at his home unannounced, identifiedherself, and laid her cards on the table.  Her message was simple.Gaston Rossignol was in serious, imminent danger.Taine was visibly rattled, but closemouthed, as she expected.  "I cannothelp you.  He has moved.  No one can say where, and it is no one'sconcern.""Except the killers?""Even if there are such assassins," Taine spoke with a display ofskepticism, but he acceded too readily to her stipulation, "who's to saythey can find him if you cannot.  Your own resources are obviouslyconsiderable.""I have reason to believe they've already made headway."A sharp glance: "Really?  And why is that?"Anna shook her head.  "There are certain matters I can only discuss withGaston Rossignol himself.""And why do you suppose anyone would want to kill him?  He is among themost admired of Zurichers.""Which explains why he's living in hiding.""What nonsense you speak," Taine said, after a beat.Anna stared at him levelly for few moments.  Then she handed him a cardwith her name on it, and her numbers at the Office of SpecialInvestigations.  "I will return in an hour.  I have reason to think yourownresources are pretty considerable.  Check me out.  Satisfy yourself asto my bona fides.  Do whatever will help you to see that I am who I sayI am, and that I'm representing myself accurately.""How can I, a mere Swiss citizen ...""You have ways, Mr.  Taine.  And if you don't, your friend does.  I'mquite sure you'll want to help your friend.  I think we understand eachother."Two hours later, Anna Navarro paid a call to Taine at his place of work.The ministry of economic affairs was located in a marble buildingconstructed in the familiar late-nineteenth-century Beaux Arts style.Taine's own office was large, sunny, and book-lined.  She was ushered into him immediately upon her arrival; the dark-paneled door closeddiscreetly behind her.Taine sat quietly behind his hurled walnut desk.  "This was not mydecision," he stressed.  "This is Monsieur Rossignol's decision.  I donot support it.""You checked me out.""You have been checked out," Taine replied carefully, hewing to thepassive voice.  He returned her card to her.  "Good-bye, Ms. Navarro."The address was penciled in small print, in a blank space to the left ofher name.Her first call was to Bartlett, updating him as to her progress.  "Younever cease to amaze me, Ms.  Navarro," he'd replied, a surprising noteof genuine warmth in his voice.As she and Resting drove to the Hottingen address, he said, "Yourrequest for surveillance was approved this morning.  Several unmarkedpolice cars shall be engaged for the purpose.""And his telephone.""Yes, we can have a tap in place within hours.  An officer at theKantonspohzei will be assigned to listen in at the Mutterhaus.""The Mutterhaus?""Police headquarters.  The Mother House, we call it."They headed steadily uphill on Hottingerstrasse.  The houses becamelarger and nicer, the trees denser.  Finally they came to Hauserstrasse,and pulled into the driveway of a low-slung brownstone house set in themiddle of a nicely landscaped yard.  She noticed there were no unmarkedpolice cruisers anywhere nearby."This is the correct address," Resting said.She nodded.  Another Swiss banker, she thought, with a big house and anice yard.They got out and walked to the front door.  Resting rang the bell. "Youdo not mind, I hope, if I lead the interview.""Not at all," Anna replied.  Whatever "international cooperation" meanton paper, that was the protocol and they both knew it.After waiting a few minutes, Resting rang again.  "He is an old man, andfor some years he has been wheekhair-bound.  It must take him time tomove around his house."After a few minutes more, Resting said, "I cannot imagine he goes outvery much at his age."  He rang again./ knew this was too easy, Anna thought.  What a botch."He may be ill," Resting said.  Uneasily he turned the doorknob but thedoor was locked.  Together, they walked around to the back door; itopened readily.  He called into the house, "Dr.  Rossignol, it isResting from the Public Prosecutor's office."  The "Dr."  seemed purelyan honorific.Silence."Dr.  Rossignol!"Resting stepped into the house, Anna following.  The lights were on, andshe could hear classical music."Dr.  Rossignol?"  Resting said more loudly.  He ventured forward intothe house.  Soon they found themselves in the dining room, where thelights were on, and a tape deck played music.  Anna could smell coffee,eggs, some kind of fried meat."Dr.  Oh, dear God!"Horrified, Anna saw what Resting had seen.An old man sat in a wheelchair at the table, before a plate ofbreakfast.  His head was on his chest, the eyes fixed and dilated.  Hewas dead.They'd gotten to him too!  That in itself didn't surprise her.  Whatstunned her was the timing so soon before their arrival, it had to be.As if they knew the authorities were coming.She tasted fear."Dammit," she said.  "Call an ambulance.  And the homicide squad.  Andplease, don't let them touch anything."CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.A squad of crime-scene officers from the homicide squad of the ZurichKantonspolizei arrived within the hour and took video and stillphotographs.  The victim's house was dusted carefully for fingerprints,particularly the front and back doors and the three windows that couldbe accessed from the ground level.  Anna asked the specialist to printboth Rossignol's wheelchair and all exposed skin on the deceased's body.Elimination prints were taken from Rossignol himself before the body wasremoved.Had the Americans not taken such an interest in Rossignol prior to hismurder, even requesting surveillance, the old man's death wouldcertainly have been treated as a natural occurrence.  Gaston Rossignolhad been ninety-one, after all.But instead an autopsy was ordered, with special attention paid to theocular fluid.  The postmortem would be done in the facilities of theUniversity of Zurich Institute of Legal Medicine, as was standard, sinceZurich had no medical examiner.Anna returned to her hotel.  Exhausted--she hadn't slept on the plane,had decided against taking an Ativan--she drew the curtains, got into anoversize T-shirt, and climbed into the bed.She was jarred awake by the telephone.  Momentarily disoriented, shethought she was back in Washington, that it was the middle of the night.She glanced at the phosphorescent dial of her watch and saw that it wastwo-thirty in the afternoon, Zurich time.  She picked up the phone."Is this Miss Navarro?"  a man's voice asked."That's me," she croaked, then cleared her throat.  "Who's this?""I'm Sergeant Major Schmid from the Kantonspolizei.  I'm a homicidedetective.  I'm sorry, did I wake you?""No, no, I was just dozing.  What's up?""The fingerprints have come back with some interesting results.  Can youfind your way to police headquarters?"Schmid was an affable man with a wide face, short hair, and ridiculouslittle bangs.  He wore a navy blue shirt and had a gold chain around hisneck.His office was pleasant, light-filled, sparsely furnished.  Two blondwood desks faced one another; she sat at one, he at the other.Schmid toyed with a paper clip.  "The fingerprints were run at theKnminaltechmk.  Rossignol's prints were eliminated, leaving a number ofother prints, most of them unidentified.  He was a widower, so we assumethey belong to his housekeeper and a few others who worked at his house.The housekeeper was on duty overnight, until this morning, when she madehis breakfast and then left.  They must have been watching the house andsaw her depart.""He didn't have a nurse?""No," Schmid said, bending the wire paper clip back and forth.  "Youknow, we now have a computerized database of fingerprints just likeyours."  He was referring to the Automated Fingerprint IdentificationService, which stored a bank of millions of prints.  "The prints werescanned in, digitized, and sent by modem to the central registry inBern, where they were run against all available databases.  The searchdid not take long.  We got a match very quickly."She sat up.  "Oh?""Yes, this is why the case was assigned to me.  The prints belong to anAmerican who was detained here just a few days ago in connection with ashooting in the vicinity of the Bahnhofplatz.""Who is he?""An American named Benjamin Hartman."The name meant nothing to her.  "What do you know about him?""A fair amount.  You see, I questioned him myself."  He handed her afile folder containing photocopies of Hartman's U.S. passport, driver'slicense, credit cards, and his Swiss police records with mug shots.She examined the copies closely, fascinated.  Could this be her man, thekiller?  An American?  Mid-thirties, an investment banker for afinancial firm called Hartman Capital Management.  A family business,she assumed.  That probably meant he had money.  Lives in New York City.Here on a Swiss ski vacation, he had told Schmid.But that could be a lie.Three of the remaining Sigma victims had been killed during the time hewas here in Zurich.  One victim had lived in Germany, which was a trainride away, so that was a possibility.  Another was in Austria; alsopossible.But Paraguay?  That was a long plane flight from here.Yet the possibility could not be ruled out.  Neither could thepossibility that he was not working alone."What happened on the Bahnhofstrasse?"  she asked.  "He shoot someone?"The paper clip Schmid was worrying snapped in the middle.  "There wasgunfire along the street and in the shopping arcade beneath theBahnhofplatz.  He was questioned in connection with that.  Personally, Idon't think he was the shooter.  He insists someone tried to shoot him.""Anyone killed?""Several bystanders.  And, in his account, the guy he insists tried toshoot him.""Hmm," she said, puzzled.  A bizarre tale: How much of it was true? Whowas this guy?  "You let him go?""We had no basis on which to hold him.  And there was some stringpulling from his firm.  He was instructed to leave the canton."Not in my backyard1.  Was that the Zurich approach to law enforcement?Anna wondered sourly.  "Any idea where he is now?""At the time, he claimed he was planning to go to St.  Montz.  The HotelCarlton.  But we've since learned that he never checked in. Then,yesterday, we received a report that he'd reappeared in Zurich, at theHandelsbank Schweiz.  We tried to bring him in for further questioning,but he escaped.  Another misadventure, accompanied by shooting.  Itfollows him around.""Surprise, surprise," Anna said.  "Do you have a way of finding outwhether Hartman is staying at some other hotel in Zurich, or anywhereelse in the country?"Schmid nodded.  "I can contact the Hotel Control in each of the cantons.Copies of all hotel registration forms go to the local police.""How current are they?""Sometimes not so current," Schmid admitted.  "At least we can tellwhere he was.""If he checked in under his own name.""All legitimate hotels require foreigners to show their passports.""Maybe he has more than one passport.  Maybe he's not staying at a'legitimate' hotel.  Maybe he has friends here."Schmid looked mildly annoyed.  "But you see, I've met him, and he didn'tlook to me like someone who carries false passports.""Some of these international businessmen, you know, have secondpassports from places like Panama or Ireland or Israel.  They come inhandy sometimes.""Yes, but such passports would still have their true names on them,right?""Maybe yes, maybe no.  Is there a way to tell if he left the country?""There are many different ways to leave the country--plane, automobile,train, even on foot.""Don't the border police keep records?""Well, the border police are supposed to look at passports," Schmidadmitted, "but often they don't.  Our best bet would be the airlines.They keep records of all passengers.""What if he left by train?""Then we may find no trace, unless he made a seat reservation on aninternational train.  But I wouldn't be hopeful.""No," Anna said, ruminating.  "Can you start the search?""Of course," Schmid said indignantly.  "It is standard.""When can I expect the autopsy results back?  I'm particularlyinterested in the toxicology."  She knew she was probably pushing theman a little too hard.  But there was no choice.Schmid shrugged.  "It could be a week.  I could put in a request tospeed things up.""I have one specific neurotoxin I'd like them to search for," she said."That shouldn't take so long.""I can call for you.""Would you?  And bank records.  I need Rossignol's bank records goingback two years.  Will Swiss banks cooperate, or are they going to giveus that whole secrecy song-and-dance?""They will cooperate with the police on a homicide," Schmid saidhuffily."That's a nice surprise.  Oh, and one more thing.  The photocopies youtook of his credit cards--think I could have those?""I don't see why not.""Wonderful," she said.  She was actually starting to like the fellow.Sao Paulo, BrazilThe wedding reception was being held at the most ultra-exclusive privateclub in all of Brazil, the Hipica Jardins.The club's members were mainly drawn from the quatrocentoes, Brazil'saristocracy, descendants of the original Portuguese settlers who hadbeen in the country for at least four hundred years.  They were the landbarons, the owners of paper mills and newspapers and publishing housesand playing-card factories, the hotel magnates--the richest of the rich,as the long line of Bentleys and Rolls-Royces parked in front of theclubhouse attested.Tonight many of them had turned out, resplendent in white tie and tails,to celebrate the wedding of the daughter of one of Brazil's plutocrats,Doutor Otavio Carvalho Pinto.  His daughter, Fernanda, was marrying intoan equally illustrious family, the Alcantara Ma chados.One of the guests was a dignified, white-haired man of almost ninety.Although he was not one of the quatrocentoes--he was in fact a native ofLisbon who had immigrated to Sao Paulo in the fifties--he was anenormously wealthy banker and landowner, and he had been for decades abusiness partner and friend of the bride's father.The old man's name was Jorge Ramago, and he sat watching the couplesdance, his noisettes de veau Perigourdine untouched.  One of thewaitresses, a dark-haired young woman, tentatively approached the oldman and said in Portuguese, "Senor Ramago, there is a telephone call foryou."Ramago turned slowly to look at her.  "Telephone?""Yes, serior, they say it is urgent.  From your home.  Your wife."Ramago at once looked worried.  "Where?--where?--" he faltered."This way, sir," the waitress said, and she gently helped him to hisfeet.  They walked slowly across the banquet room, for the old Lisbonerwas afflicted with rheumatism, though he was otherwise in excellenthealth.Outside the banquet room, the waitress guided Ramago to an antiquewooden telephone booth and assisted him into it, solicitously smoothinghis rumpled dinner jacket.Just as Ramago reached for the telephone, he felt a sharp pinprick inhis upper thigh.  He gasped, looked around, but the waitress was gone.The pain quickly subsided, though, and he put the handset up to his earand listened.  But all he could hear was the dial tone."There is no one on the line," Ramago managed to say to no one justbefore he lost consciousness.A minute or so later, one of the waiters noticed the old man passed outin the telephone booth.  Alarmed, he called out for help.The Austrian AlpsPatient Eighteen was awakened at midnight.One of the nurses gently applied a tourniquet to his upper arm and beganto draw blood."What the hell is this?"  he groaned."I'm sorry, sir," the nurse said.  Her English was heavily accented. "Weare required to take venous blood samples every four hours from midnighton, throughout the day.""Good God, for what?""It is to measure the levels of your serum Epo--erythropoietin.""I didn't know I had any."  All this medical stuff was unsettling, buthe knew there was much more to come."Please, go back to sleep, sir.  You have a long day ahead of you."Breakfast was served in a lavish banquet room with the others.  Therewas a buffet overflowing with fresh fruits, freshly baked biscuits androlls, breakfast sausages, eggs, bacon, and ham.When Patient Eighteen finished, he was escorted to an examination roomin another wing.There, another nurse gingerly cut into the skin of the inner part of hisupper arm with a small scalpel.He moaned."I'm sorry if I caused you pain," the nurse said."My entire damned body's one big pain.  What's this for?""A skin biopsy to examine the elastic fibers in the reticular dermis,"she replied, applying a bandage.In the background, two white-coated physicians were quietly conferringin German.  Patient Eighteen understood every word."His brain function is somewhat impaired," the short, rotund one said,"but nothing you wouldn't expect in a man of his age.  No sign of seniledementia or Alzheimer's."A tall, thin, gray-faced man said, "What about cardiac muscle mass?""Acceptable.  But we measured the blood pressure at the posterior tibialartery, this time using Doppler ultrasonography, and we did find someperipheral arterial disease.""So his blood pressure is elevated.""Somewhat, but we expected that.""Have you counted the number of pitted blood cells?""I believe that's being done in the lab right now.""Good.  I think this one is a good candidate.  I suggest we acceleratethe tests."A good candidate, Patient Eighteen thought.  So it would happen afterall.  He turned to the conferring doctors behind and smiled widely atthem, feigning gratitude.CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.ViennaThe private investigator was almost half an hour late.  Ben sat in thespacious lobby of his hotel just off the Karntner Strasse, his melangeuntouched, waiting for the detective whose name he had plucked from theyellow pages.He knew there were far better ways to find the name of a PI than theVienna telephone book--such as calling one of his several businesscontacts here and asking for a recommendation.  But his instincts toldhim to avoid anyone he knew right now if he could possibly help it.He'd gotten on the first train, showed up unannounced at a small hotel,and been lucky enough to get a room, registering under the name RobertSimon, one of his brother's aliases.  He was asked for his passport, andheld his breath as it was inspected, but it obviously looked in order,plausibly battered and stamped, as if from a few years' use.The first thing he'd done was to look through the Vienna phone book foran investigator who seemed, from his advertisement anyway, reputable.Several were located in the first district, the heart of the city whereBen's hotel was; one in particular advertised his services in locatinglong lost relatives.  Ben had hired him over the phone, asking him torun a background check on an Austrian citizen.Now he was beginning to wonder whether the PI was going to show at all.Then a portly man of about forty plopped himself into the chair acrossthe low table from Ben.  "You are Mr.  Simon?"  He set down a batteredleather portfolio on the table."That's me.""Hans Hoffman," the PI said.  "You have the money?""Nice to meet you too," Ben said sardonically.  He took out his wallet,counted out four hundred dollars, and slid it across the table.Hoffman stared at it for a moment."Something wrong?"  Ben asked.  "You prefer Austrian shillings? Sorry, Ihaven't gone to a bank yet.""There was an additional expense involved," the detective said."Oh really?""A courtesy payment to an old buddy of mine in the HNA, the HeeresNachrichtenamt--Austrian military intelligence.""Translation, a bribe," Ben said.Hoffman shrugged."I don't imagine this buddy of yours gave you a receipt?"Hoffman sighed.  "This is how we do things here.  You can't get the sortof information you're looking for without exploring various channels.This friend will have to use his military intelligence ID card to getinformation.  It will be another two hundred dollars.  The number--itwas unlisted, by the way--and address I can get you now."Ben counted it out; it was the end of his cash.The detective counted the bills.  "I don't know why you wanted thisperson's number and address, but you must be involved in someinteresting business.""Why do you say that?""Your man is a very important figure in Vienna."  He signaled for thewaitress; when she came, he ordered a melange and a Maximilian torte.From his briefcase he removed a laptop computer, snapped it open, andturned it on.  "The very latest in biometrics," he said proudly."Fingertip sensor.  Uses my fingerprint as a password.  Without it, thecomputer's locked.  No one does these things like the Germans."The detective tapped at the keys for a few seconds, then turned itaround to face Ben.  The screen was blank except for the name andaddress of Jorgen Lenz."You know him?"  Hoffman said, turning the laptop back toward himself."He is an acquaintance of yours?""Not exactly.  Tell me about him.""Ah, well, Dr.  Lenz is one of the wealthiest men in Vienna, a leadingphilanthropist and patron of the arts.  His family foundation buildsmedical clinics for the poor.  He's also on the board of the ViennaPhilharmonic."The waitress set down a coffee and pastry in front of Hoffman.  Thedetective lunged for them before the waitress had even turned to leave."What kind of doctor is Dr.  Lenz?""A medical doctor, but he gave up his practice years ago.""How old?""In his fifties, I would say.""Medicine must be something of a family tradition."Hoffman laughed.  "You're remembering his father, Gerhard Lenz.  Aninteresting case.  Our country is perhaps not the most progressive, insome ways.  My compatriots would prefer to forget any suchunpleasantness.  It's the Austrian way: as the saving goes, we'veconvinced ourselves that Beethoven was an Austrian, and Hitler was aGerman.  But Jorgen is cut from a different cloth.  This is a son whoseeks to make up for the crimes of the father.""Really?""Oh, very much.  Jurgen Lenz is resented in some circles for being sooutspoken about these crimes.  Even denouncing his own father.  He isknown to feel deep shame about what his father did."  He looked at historte impatiently.  "But unlike many children of the famous Nazis, hedoes something about it.  The Lenz Foundation is Austria's leadingsupporter of Holocaust studies, historical scholarship, libraries inIsrael... they fund anything that seeks to fight hate crimes, racism,that sort of thing."  He returned to his pastry, wolfing it down as iffearing it would be snatched away.Lenz's son was a leading anti-Nazi?  Perhaps they had more in commonthan he had supposed.  "All right," Ben said, gesturing to the waitressfor the check with the universal air-scrawl.  "Thank you.""Anything else I can do for you?"  the detective asked, brushing crumbsoff the lapels of his jacket.Trevor Griffiths left his hotel, the Imperial, on the Ka'rntner Ring afew blocks from the Opera.  Not only was the Imperial the finest hotelin Vienna, Trevor reflected, but it was famous as the headquarters ofthe Nazis during the war, the location from which they governed thecity.  He liked the hotel anyway.It was a short stroll down Mariahilfer Strasse to a small bar onNeubaugasse.  The garish red neon sign flashed the bar's name: broadwayCLUB.  He sat in a booth at the back of the ill-lit basement room andwaited.  In his bespoke gray worsted double-breasted suit, he lookedsomewhat "out of place here, like a businessman, a high-level executiveperhaps, or a prosperous attorney.The bar was choked with foul cigarette smoke.  Trevor could not tolerateit, hated the way his hair and clothes would stink afterward. He glancedat his watch, an Audemars Piguet, top of the line, one of the fewindulgences he allowed himself.  Expensive suits and watches and goodrough sex.  What else was there, really, if you had no interest in food,art, or music?He was impatient.  The Austrian contact was late, and Trevor could notabide tardiness.Finally, after almost half an hour, the Austrian showed up, a square,hulking troglodyte named Otto.  Otto slid into the booth and placed aworn red felt bag in front of Trevor."You're English, yes?"Trevor nodded, zipped open the bag.  It contained two large metalpieces, a 9 mm Makarov, the barrel threaded for a silencer, and thelong, perforated sound-suppressor itself.  "Ammo?"  Trevor asked."Is in there," Otto said.  "Nine by eighteen.  Lots."The Makarov was a good choice.  Unlike the 9 mm Parabellum, it wassubsonic.  "What's the make?"  Trevor asked.  "Hungarian?  Chinese?""Russian.  But it's good one.""How much?""Three thousand shillings."Trevor grimaced.  He didn't mind spending money, but he resented highwayrobbery.  He switched to German, so Otto, whose English was poor, wouldmiss nothing.  "Der Markt 1st mit Makarovs iiberschwemmt." The market'sflooded with Makarovs.Otto became suddenly alert."These things are a dime a dozen," Trevor continued in German. "Everyonemakes them, they're all over the place.  I'll give you a thousandshillings, and you should count yourself lucky to get that."Respect entered Otto's expression.  "You're German?"  he asked, amazed.Actually, if Otto were a perceptive listener, he'd have placed Trevor'sGerman as coming from the Dresden region.Trevor had not spoken German in quite a while; he'd had no opportunityto do so.  But it came back easily.It was, after all, his native tongue.Anna had dinner alone at a Mdvenpick restaurant a few blocks from herhotel.  There was nothing on the menu that interested her, and shedecided she was no connoisseur of Swiss cuisine.Normally, she found dining alone in a foreign city depressing, buttonight she was too absorbed in her thoughts to feel lonely.  She wasseated by the window, in a long row of lone diners, most of them readingnewspapers or books.At the American consulate, she used a secure fax line to transmiteverything she had on Hartman, including his credit cards, to the I.C.Uand had asked that the ID unit contact each of the credit-card companiesand activate an instant trace, so that they would be informed withinminutes whenever he used one of the cards.She had also asked them to dig up whatever they could on Hartmanhimself, and someone had called her back on the encrypted cell phoneless than an hour later.They had struck gold.According to Hartman's office, he was on vacation in Switzerland, buthadn't checked in with the office in several days.  They didn't have histravel itinerary; he hadn't provided one.  They had no way to contacthim.But then the ID tech had learned something interesting; Hartman's onlysibling, a twin brother, had died in a plane crash in Switzerland fouryears earlier.  Apparently he'd been on some Swiss-gold crusade beforehis death.  She didn't know what to make of that except that it raisedall sorts of questions.And Benjamin Hartman, the tech told her, was loaded.  The company heworked for, Hartman Capital Management, managed investment funds and hadbeen founded by Hartman's father.Who was a well-known philanthropist and a Holocaust survivor.Possibilities suggested themselves.  Poor little rich boy, son of asurvivor, gets it in his head that the Swiss bankers haven't been doingright by the Holocaust victims.  Now his twin takes up the same crusade,trying for some sort of misguided revenge on a Swiss banking bigwig.  Arich boy's half-cocked vendetta.Or maybe he was in it deeper working for whatever this Sigma outfit hadmorphed into.  For some unexplained reason.Then the question was, where did he get the names and addresses of allthese old men in hiding?And how was his brother's death connected if at all?At a little after nine o'clock in the evening she returned to the hoteland was handed a message slip by the night manager.  Thomas Schmid, thehomicide detective, had called.She called him back immediately from the room.  He was still in hisoffice."We have some of the autopsy results back," he said.  "On that poisonyou asked the toxicology people to screen for?""Yes?""They found that neurotoxin in the ocular fluid, a positive match.Rossignol was indeed poisoned."Anna sat down in the chair beside the phone.  Progress.  She felt thepleasant tingle she always had when there was a breakthrough.  "Did theyfind an injection mark on the body?""Not as yet, but they say it's very difficult to find tiny marks likethat.  They say they will keep looking.""When was he killed?""Apparently this morning, shortly before we got there.""That means Hartman may still be in Zurich.  Are you on top of that?"A pause, then Schmid said coldly, "I am on top of that.""Any news on the bank records?""The banks will cooperate, but they take their time.  They also havetheir procedures.""Of course.""We should have Rossignol's bank records by tomorrow "On her end of the line a beep interrupted Schmid.  "One second, I thinkI've got another call coming in."  She pressed the "flash" button.  Thehotel operator told her it was a call from her office in Washington."Miss Navarro, this is Robert Polozzi in ID.""Thanks for calling.  Turn up anything?""MasterCard security just called.  Hartman used his card a few minutesago.  He made a charge at a restaurant in Vienna."Kent, EnglandAt his country estate in Westerham, Kent, Sir Edward Downey, the retiredPrime Minister of England, was in the middle of a game of chess in therose garden with his grandson when the telephone rang."Not again," eight-year-old Christopher groaned."Hold your horses, young man," Sir Edward snapped good-naturedly."Sir Edward, it's Mr.  Holland," the voice said."Mr.  Holland, is everything all right?"  Sir Edward asked, suddenlyconcerned.  "Our meeting is still going ahead as scheduled?""Oh, without a doubt.  But a minor matter has come up and I wonderedwhether you might be able to help."As he listened, Sir Edward gave his grandson a menacing scowl, at whichChristopher giggled, as he always did.  "Well, Mr.  Holland, let me makea few calls and see what I can do."ViennaJurgen Lenz's house was in an exclusive, densely wooded district in thesouthwest part of Vienna called Hietzing: an enclave of some of Vienna'swealthiest residents.  Lenz's house, or, more properly, his villa, waslarge, modern, an intriguing and handsome mix of Tyrolean architectureand Frank Lloyd Wright.The element of surprise, Ben thought.  / need it when I confront Lenz.In part, it was a question of survival.  He didn't want Peter'smurderers to discover he was in Vienna, and, despite the seed of doubtthat Hoff man had planted, the likeliest assumption was that Lenz wasone of them.Of course, he couldn't just show up on Lenz's doorstep and hope to gainadmittance.  The approach had to be more sophisticated.  Ben ran througha mental list of the most prominent and influential people he knewpersonally who would vouch for him, even lie for him.He remembered the head of a major American charity who had come to seehim several times to ask for money.  Each time the Hartman family, andthe firm, had given generously.Payback time, Ben thought.The charity head, Winston Rockwell, was seriously ill with hepatitis,laid up in the hospital, last Ben had heard, and impossible to reach.This was terribly unfortunate for Rockwell--but convenient for Ben.He called Lenz's home, asked for Jurgen Lenz, told the woman whoanswered the phone--Mrs.  Lenz?--that he was a friend of WinstonRockwell's and was interested in the Lenz Foundation.  Code languagefor: I have money to give you.  Even rich foundations don't turn awaycontributions.Mrs.  Lenz replied in fluent English that her husband should be home byfive, and would Mr.  Robert Simon like to come by for a drink?  Jurgenwould be delighted to meet any friend of Winston Rockwell's.The woman who opened the door was an elegant, fine-boned woman in herearly fifties, wearing a gray sweater-dress, a pearl choker, andmatching pearl earrings."Please come in," she said.  "Mr.  Simon, is it?  I'm Use Lenz.  Hownice to meet you!""Nice to meet you, too," Ben said.  "Thanks for seeing me, particularlyon such short notice.""Oh, don't be silly, we're thrilled to meet anyone Winston recommends.You're from--where, did you say?""Los Angeles," he replied."We were there years ago for some beastly technology conference. Jorgenshould be right down--ah, here he is!"A whippet-thin, athletic-looking man was bounding down the stairs."Hallo, there!"  Jurgen Lenz called out.  In his blue blazer, grayflannel slacks, and rep tie he could have been an American chiefexecutive, maybe an Ivy League college president.  His smooth faceglowed with health; his smile was sunny.This was not at all what Ben had expected.  Liesl's gun, holstered tohis shoulder inside his sport coat and loaded with ammunition--he'dstopped at a sporting-goods shop on the Karntner Strasse--suddenly feltbulky.Lenz shook Ben's hand firmly.  "Any friend of Winston Rockwell's is afriend of mine!"  Then his voice became soft, tender.  "How's he doingthese days?""Not well," Ben said.  "He's been in the George Washington UniversityMedical Center for weeks now, and the doctors are telling him he's notlikely to go home for at least two weeks more.""I'm so sorry to hear that," Lenz said, putting his arm around hiswife's slender waist.  "What a nice fellow he is.  Well, let's not standhere.  A drink, shall we?  What's the American expression--somewhereit's got to be six o'clock, hmm?"Trevor parked his stolen Peugeot across the street from Lenz's house inHietzing, switched off the engine, and sat back to wait.  When thetarget emerged from the house, he would get out of the car, cross thestreet, and come close to him.  He did not plan to miss.CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.There was no time.Certainly no time to go through channels, Anna realized.Hartman had just made a charge at a hotel in the first district ofVienna.  It was for a small amount, the equivalent of about fifteendollars.  Did that mean he had only stopped at the hotel for a drink, acoffee, a late lunch?  If so, he'd be long gone.  But if he was stayingthere, she had him.She could go through the FBI legal in Vienna, but by the time the officehad made contact with the local police through the Austrian JusticeMinistry, Benjamin Hartman could well have gone on to another city.So she had rushed to Zurich-Kloten Airport, bought a ticket on the nextAustrian Airlines flight to Vienna, and then located a pay phone.The first call she made was to a contact of hers in the Vienna police,the Bundespohzeidirektion.  He was Dr.  Fritz Weber, chief of theSicherheitsburo, the security unit of the Vienna police specializing inviolent crimes.  This wasn't exactly the section of the police sheneeded to reach, but she knew Weber would be happy to help.She'd met Weber a few years earlier when she'd been sent to Vienna on acase involving a cultural attache at the American embassy there who hadbecome involved in a sex ring purveying somewhat underaged Madchen.Weber, an affable man and a smooth politician, had been grateful for herhelp, and her discretion, in rooting out a problem that presentedpotential embarrassment for both countries--and had taken her out to afestive dinner before she left.  Now he seemed delighted to hear fromAgent Navarro and promised to get someone on the case immediately.Her second call was to the FBI's legal in Vienna, a man named TomMurphy, whom she didn't know but had heard good things about.  She gaveMurphy an abbreviated, sanitized rundown on why she was coming toVienna.  He asked her whether she wanted him to arrange liaison with theVienna police, but she said no, she had her own contact there. Murphy, areal by-the-book man, did not sound happy about it but made noobjection.As soon as she arrived at Vienna's Schwechat Airport, she placed anothercall to Fritz Weber, who gave her the name and phone number of theDistrict Inspector on the surveillance squad who was now working thecase.Sergeant Walter Heisler wasn't fluent in English, but they managed tomuddle through."We went to the hotel where Hartman made the credit-card charge,"Heisler explained.  "He is a guest at the hotel."The sergeant worked fast.  This was promising.  "Great work," she said."Any chance of finding the car?"The compliment seemed to warm him up.  Given that the target ofinvestigation was an American, he also realized that the involvement ofa representative of the U.S. government would eliminate most of thecomplicated paperwork and jurisdictional issues that an apprehension ofa foreign national would normally present."We have already the how you say, the tail on him," Heisler said withsome enthusiasm."You're kidding.  How'd you do that?""Well, once we found out that he is at the hotel, we put two men innewsstand in front of the place.  They saw he goes in rented car, anOpel Vectra, and they follow him to part of Vienna called Hietzing.""What's he doing there?""Visiting someone, maybe.  A private home.  We're trying to know who itis.""Amazing.  Fantastic work."  She meant it."Thank you," he said exuberantly.  "You would like me to pick you up atairport?"There was some small talk for a few minutes, which was stressful, sinceBen's cover was only half thought out.  The mythical Robert Simon ran asuccessful financial management firm based in L.A.--Ben figured that ifhe kept it close to the truth, there'd be less chance of a seriousgaffe-and handled the assets of movie stars, real estate tycoons,Silicon Valley IPO paper billionaires.  Ben apologized that his clientlist had to remain confidential, though he didn't mind mentioning a nameor two they'd no doubt heard of.And all the while he wondered: Who is this man?  The sole heir ofGerhard Lenz the notorious scientist and a principal in something calledSigma.As he and the Lenzes chatted, all three of them drinking Armagnac, Benfurtively inspected the sitting room.  It was furnished comfortably,with English and French antiques.  Paintings of the Old Master schoolwere framed in gilt, each one perfectly lighted.  On a table beside thecouch he noticed silver-framed photographs of what he assumed werefamily.  Conspicuously absent was any picture of Lenz's father."But enough about my work," Ben said.  "I wanted to ask you about theLenz Foundation.  I understand its main purpose is to promote study ofthe Holocaust.""We fund historical scholarship, yes, and we give to Israeli libraries,"Jurgen Lenz explained.  "We give a lot of money to combat hatred.  Wethink it's extremely important that Austrian schoolchildren study thecrimes of the Nazis.  Don't forget, many of the Austrians welcomed theNazis.  When Hitler came here in the thirties and gave a speech from thebalcony of the Imperial, he attracted enormous crowds, women weeping atthe sight of such a great man."  Lenz sighed.  "An abomination.""But your father ... if you don't mind my saying ..."  Ben began."History knows that my father was inhuman," Lenz said.  "Yes, hecertainly was.  He performed the most gruesome, the most unspeakableexperiments on prisoners in Auschwitz, on children ""Will you excuse me, please?"  Use Lenz said, rising to her feet.  "Ican't hear about his father," she murmured.  She walked from the room."Darling, I'm sorry," Lenz called after her.  He turned to Ben,anguished.  "I can't blame her.  She didn't have to live with thislegacy.  Her father was killed in the war when she was a child.""I'm sorry to have brought it up," Ben said."Please, not at all.  It is a perfectly natural question.  I'm sure itstrikes Americans as strange that the son of the notorious Gerhard Lenzdevotes his life to giving away money to study the crimes of his father.But you must understand, those of us who, by the accident of birth, havehad to struggle with this we, the children of the most important Naziswe each react in very different ways.  There are those, like RudolphHess's son Wolf, who spend their lives trying to clear their father'snames.  And there are those who grow up confused, struggling to makesome sense of it all.  I was born too late to have retained any personalmemories of my father, but there are many who knew their fathers only asthey were at home, not as Hitler's men."Jorgen Lenz grew steadily more impassioned as he spoke.  "We grew up inprivileged homes.  We drove through the Warsaw ghetto in the back of alimousine, not understanding why the children out there looked so sad.We watched our fathers' eyes light up when the Fuhrer himself called towish the family a merry Christmas.  And some of us, as soon as we wereold enough to think, learned to loathe our fathers and everything theystood for.  To despise them with every fiber of our being."Lenz's surprisingly youthful face was flushed.  "I don't think of myfather as my father, you see.  He's like someone else to me, a stranger.Shortly after the war ended, he escaped to Argentina, I'm sure you know,smuggled out of Germany with false papers.  He left my mother and mepenniless, living in a military detention camp."  He paused.  "So yousee, I've never had any doubts or conflicts about the Nazis.  Creatingthis foundation was the very least I could do."The room was silent for a moment."I came to Austria to study medicine," Lenz continued.  "In some ways itwas a relief to leave Germany.  I loved it here--I was born here--and Istayed, practicing medicine, keeping as anonymous as I could.  After Imet Use, the love of my life, we discussed what we could do with thefamily money she'd inherited--her father had made a fortune publishingreligious books and hymnals--and we decided I'd give up medicine anddevote my life to fighting against what my father fought for.  Nothingcan ever efface the darkness that was the Third Reich, but I've devotedmyself to trying, in my own small way, to be a force of humanbetterment."  Lenz's speech seemed a little too polished, too rehearsed,as if he'd delivered it a thousand times before.  No doubt he had.  Yetthere didn't seem to be a false note. Beneath the calm assured ness Lenzwas clearly a tormented man."You never saw your father again?""No.  I saw him two or three times before his death.  He came to Germanyfrom Argentina to visit.  He had a new name, a new identity. But mymother wouldn't see him.  I saw him, but I felt nothing for him. He wasa stranger to me.""Your mother simply cut him off?""The next time was when she traveled to Argentina for his funeral. Shedid do that, as if she needed to see that he was dead.  The funny thingwas, she found she loved the country.  It's where she finally retiredto."There was another silence, and then Ben said quietly but firmly, "I mustsay I'm impressed by all the resources you've devoted to shedding lighton your paternal legacy.  I wonder, in this connection, if you can tellme about an organization known as Sigma."  He studied Lenz's faceclosely as he spoke the name.Lenz looked at him for a good long while.  Ben could hear his own heartthudding in the silence.At last Lenz spoke.  "You mention Sigma casually, but I think this maybe the entire reason you have come here," Lenz said.  "Why are you here,Mr.  Simon?"Ben felt a chill.  He had let himself be cornered.  Now the roadsdiverged: now he could try to hold on to his false identity, or come outwith the truth.It was time to be direct.  To draw out the quarry."Mr.  Lenz, I'm inviting you to clarify the nature of your involvementwith Sigma."Lenz frowned.  "Why are you here, Mr.  Simon?  Why do you sneak into myhouse and lie to me?"  Lenz smiled strangely, his voice quiet.  "You'reCIA, Mr.  "Simon," is that right?""What are you talking about?"  Ben said, baffled and frightened."Who are you really, Mr.  "Simon'?  Lenz whispered."Nice house," Anna said.  "Whose is it?"She sat in the front seat of a smoke-filled blue BMW, an unmarked policevehicle.  Sergeant Walter Heisler was at the wheel, a beefy, heartylooking man in his late thirties, smoking Casablancas.  He was cordialenough."One of our more, eh, prominent citizens," Heisler said, taking a dragon his cigarette.  "Jurgen Lenz.""Who is he?"They were both looking out at a handsome villa a hundred yards or sodown Adolfstorgasse.  Anna saw that most of the parked cars had blacklicense plates with white letters.  Heisler explained that you had topay to maintain such plates; it was the old, aristocratic style.He blew out a cloud of smoke.  "Lenz and his wife are active in thesocial circles here, the Opera Ball and so on.  I guess you'd call them,how you say, phi lo philanthropists?  Lenz runs the family foundation.Moved here twenty-some years ago from Germany.""Hmmm."  Her eyes were smarting from the smoke, but she didn't want tocomplain.  Heisler was doing her a major favor.  She rather likedsitting here in the smoke-filled cop car, one of the fellas."How old?""Fifty-seven, I believe.""And prominent.""Very."There were three other unmarked vehicles idling on the street, one nearthem, the other two a few hundred yards down the block, on the otherside of Lenz's villa.  The cars were arranged in a classic boxformation, so that no matter how Hartman chose to leave theneighborhood, they would have him trapped.  The officers waiting in thecars were all highly trained members of the surveillance squad.  Each ofthem was equipped with weapons and walkie-talkies.Anna had no weapon.  It was highly unlikely, she thought, that Hartmanwould put up any resistance.  His records showed that he'd never owned agun or applied for a license to carry.  The murders of the old men hadall been done by means of poison, by syringe.  He probably had no weaponwith him.In fact, there wasn't much she knew about Hartman.  But her Viennesecomrades knew even less.  She had told her friend Fritz Weber only thatthe American had left prints at the crime scene in Zurich, nothing more.Heisler, too, knew only that Hartman was wanted in Rossignol's murder.But that was enough for the Bundespolizei to agree to apprehend Hartmanand, at the formal request of the FBI legal in Vienna, to place himunder arrest.She wondered how much she could trust the local police.This was no theoretical question.  Hartman was in there meeting with aman who ... A thought occurred to her.  "This guy, Lenz," she said, hereyes burning from the smoke.  "This may be a strange question, but doeshe have anything to do with the Nazis?"Heisler stubbed out his cigarette in the car's overflowing ashtray."Well, this is a strange question," he said.  "His father--do you knowthe name Dr.  Gerhard Lenz?""No, should I?"He shrugged: naive Americans.  "One of the worst.  A colleague of JosefMengele's who did all kinds of horrifying experiments in the camps.""Ah."  Another idea suggested itself.  Hartman, a survivor's son with anavenging spirit, was going after the next generation."His son is a good man, very different from his father.  He devotes hislife to undoing his father's evil."She stared at Heisler, then out the windshield at Lenz's magnificentvilla.  The son was anti-Nazi?  Amazing.  She wondered whether Hartmanknew that.  He might not know anything about the younger Lenz exceptthat he was the son of Gerhard, son of a Nazi.  If he were really afanatic, he wouldn't care if Lenz Junior could turn water into wine.Which meant that Hartman might already have given Jurgen Lenz a lethalinjection.Jesus, she thought, as Heisler lit another Casablanca.  Why are we justsitting here?"Is that yours?"  Heisler suddenly asked."Is what mine?""That car."  He pointed at a Peugeot that was parked across the streetfrom Lenz's villa.  "It's been in the area since we get here.""No.  It's not one of yours?""Absolutely not.  I can tell from plates.""Maybe it's a neighbor, or a friend?""I wonder could your American colleagues be involving in this, maybechecking on you?"  Heisler said heatedly.  "Because if that's the case,I'm calling this operation off right now!"Unsettled and defensive, she said, "It can't be.  Tom Murphy would havelet me know before sending someone in."  Wouldn't he?  "Anyway, hebarely seemed interested when I first told him."But if he were checking up on her?  Was that possible?"Well, then who is it?"  Heisler demanded."Who are you?"  Jurgen Lenz repeated, fear now showing on his face. "Youare not a friend of Winston Rockwell's.""Sort of," Ben admitted.  "I mean, I know him from some work I've done.I'm Benjamin Hartman.  My father is Max Hartman."  Once more, he watchedLenz to gauge his reaction.Lenz blenched, and then his expression softened.  "Dear God," hewhispered.  "I can see the resemblance.  What happened to your brotherwas a terrible thing."Ben felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.  "What do you know?" heshouted.The police radio crackled to life."Korporal, well 1st das?""Keine Ahnting.""Keiner van uns, oder?""Richtig."Now the other team wanted to know whether the Peugeot was one of theirs;Heisler confirmed he had no idea who it was.  He took a night visionmonocular from the backseat and held it up to one eye.  It was dark onthe street now, and the unidentified car had switched off its lights.There was no street lamp nearby, so it was impossible to see thedriver's face.  The night-vision scope was a good idea, Anna thought."He has a newspaper up before his face," Heisler said.  "A tabloid. DieKronen Zeitung--I can just make it out.""Can't be easy for the guy to read the paper in the dark, huh?"  Shethought: Lenz Junior could be dead already, and we're sitting herewaiting."I do not think he's getting much reading done."  Heisler seemed toshare her sense of humor."Mind if I take a look?"He handed her the scope.  All she saw was newsprint.  "He's obviouslytrying not to be identified," she said.  What if he really was Bureau?"Which tells us something.  O.K. if I use your cell phone?""Not at all."  He gave her his clunky Ericsson, and she punched out thelocal number of the U.S. embassy."Tom," she said when Murphy came on the line.  "It's Anna Navarro.  Youdidn't send anyone out to Hietzing, did you?""Hietzing?  Here in Vienna?""My case."A pause.  "No, you didn't ask me to, did you?""Well, someone's screwing up my stakeout.  No one in your office wouldhave taken it upon himself to check up on me without clearing it withyou first?""They better not.  Anyway, everyone's accounted for here, far as Iknow.""Thanks."  She disconnected, handed the phone back to Heisler."Strange.""Then who is in that car?"  Heisler asked."If I may ask, why did you think I was CIA?""There are some old-timers in that community who have rather takenagainst me," Lenz said, shrugging.  "Do you know about Project PaperClip?"  They had graduated to vodka.  Use Lenz had still not returned tothe sitting room, more than an hour after she had so abruptly left."Perhaps not by that name.  You're aware that immediately after the war,the U.S. government--the OSS, as the CIA's predecessor wascalled--smuggled some of Nazi Germany's leading scientists to America,yes?  Paper Clip was the code name for this plan.  The Americanssanitized the Germans' records, falsified their backgrounds.  Covered upthe fact that these were mass-murderers.  You see, because as soon asthe war was over, America turned its attention to a new war--the ColdWar.  Suddenly all that counted was fighting the Soviet Union. Americahad spent four years and countless lives battling the Nazis and suddenlythe Nazis were their friends--so long as they could help in the struggleagainst the Communists.  Help build weapons and such for America.  Thesescientists were brilliant men, the brains behind the Third Reich'senormous scientific accomplishments.""And war criminals,""Precisely.  Some of them responsible for the torture and murder ofthousands upon thousands of concentration-camp inmates.  Some, likeWernher von Braun and Dr.  Hubertus Strughold, had invented many of theNazi's weapons of war.  Arthur Rudolph, who helped murder twentythousand innocent people at Nordhausen, was awarded NASA's highestcivilian honor!"Twilight settled.  Lenz got up and switched on lamps around the sittingroom.  "The Americans brought in the man who was in charge of deathcamps in Poland.  One Nazi scientist they gave asylum to had conductedthe freezing experiments at Dachau he ended up at Randolph Air ForceBase in San Antonio, a distinguished professor of space medicine.  TheCIA people who arranged all this, those few who survive, have been lessthan appreciative of my efforts to shed light on this episode.""Your efforts?""Yes, and those of my foundation.  It is not an insignificant part ofthe research that we sponsor.""But what threat could the CIA pose?""The CIA, I understand, did not exist until a few years after the war,but they inherited operational control of these agents.  There areaspects of history that some old-guard types in the CIA prefer to haveleft undisturbed.  Some of them will go to quite extraordinary lengthsto ensure this.""I'm sorry, I can't believe that.  The CIA doesn't go around killingpeople.""No, not anymore," Lenz conceded, a note of sarcasm in his voice.  "Notsince they killed Allende in Chile, Lumumba in the Belgian Congo, triedto assassinate Castro.  No, they're prohibited by law from doing suchthings.  So now they out source as you American businessmen like to say.They hire freelancers, mercenaries, through chains of frontorganizations, so the hit men can never be connected with the U.S.government."  He broke off.  "The world is more complicated than youseem to think.""But that's all ancient, irrelevant history!""Scarcely irrelevant if you're one of the ancient men who may beimplicated," Lenz pressed on inexorably.  "I speak of elder statesmen,retired diplomats, former dignitaries who did a stint with the Office ofStrategic Services in their youth.  As they putter around theirlibraries and write their memoirs, they cannot avoid a certain unease."He gazed into the clear fluid in his glass as if seeing something there."These are men accustomed to power, and deference.  They would not lookforward to revelations that would darken their golden years. Oh, ofcourse, they'll tell themselves that what they do is for the good of thecountry, sparing the good name of the United States.  So much of thewickedness men do is in the name of the commonweal.  This, Mr.  Hartman,I know.  Frail old dogs can be the most dangerous.  Calls can be made,favors called in.  Mentors drawing on the loyalty of proteges.Frightened old men determined to die with at least their good namesintact.  I wish I could discount this scenario.  But I know what thesemen are like.  I have seen too much of human nature."Use reappeared, carrying a small leather-bound book; on its spine Benmade out the name Holderlin, lettered in gilt.  "I see you gentlemen arestill at it," she said."You understand, don't you, why we can be slightly on edge," Lenz toldBen smoothly.  "We have many enemies.""There have been many threats against my husband," Use said.  "There arefanatics on the right who view him, somehow, as a turncoat, as the manwho betrayed his father's legacy."  She smiled without warmth andrepaired to the adjoining room."They worry me less, to be frank, than the self-interested, ostensiblyrational souls who simply don't understand why we can't let sleepingdogs lie."  Lenz's eyes were alert.  "And whose friends, as I say, maybe tempted to take rather extreme measures to ensure that their goldenyears remain golden.  But I go on.  You had certain questions about thepostwar period, questions you hoped I might be able to answer."Jorgen Lenz examined the photograph, gripping it in both hands.  Hisface was tense.  "That's my father," he said.  "Yes.""You look just like him," Ben said."Quite the legacy, hmm?"  Lenz said ruefully.  No longer was he thecharming, affable host.  Now he peered intently at the rest of thephotograph.  "Dear God, no.  It can't be."  He sank into his chair, hisface ashen."What can't?"  Ben was unrelenting.  "Tell me what you know.""Is this genuine?"  The same reaction that Carl Mercandetti, thehistorian, had had."Yes."  Ben took a deep breath, and replied with the utmost intensity."Yes."  The lives of Peter, Liesl, and who knew how many others had beenits guarantors of authenticity."But Sigma was a myth!  An old wives' tale!  We'd all satisfiedourselves that it was.""Then you do know of it?"Lenz leaned forward.  "You have to remember that in the tumult followingthe war, there were all sorts of wild tales.  One of those was thelegend of Sigma, vague and shrouded as it was.  That some sort ofalliance was forged among the major industrialists of the world."  Hepointed at two faces.  "That men like Sir Alford Kittredge and WolfgangSiebing, one revered and one reviled, made common cause.  That they metin secrecy, and forged a clandestine pact.""And what was the nature of that pact?"Lenz shook his head hopelessly.  "I wish I knew, Mr.  Hartman--may Icall you Ben?  I'm sorry.  I'd never taken the stories seriously untilnow.""And your own father's involvement?"Lenz shook his head slowly.  "You're exceeding my own knowledge. PerhapsJakob Sonnenfeld would know of these things."Sonnenfeld--Sonnenfeld was the most prominent Nazi hunter alive. "Wouldhe help me?""Speaking as a major benefactor of his institute," Lenz replied, "I amcertain he'll do his best."  He poured himself a fortifying quantity ofspirits.  "We've been dancing around one issue, haven't we?  You stillhaven't explained how you came to be involved in all of this.""Do you recognize the man next to your father?""No," Lenz said.  He squinted.  "He looks a little like ... but that'snot possible either.""Yes.  That's my father next to yours."  Ben's voice was flatlydeclarative."That makes no sense," Lenz protested.  "Everyone in my world knowsabout your father.  He's a major philanthropist.  A force for good. Anda Holocaust survivor, of course.  Yes, it looks like him--like you, infact.  But I repeat: that makes no sense."Ben laughed bitterly.  "I'm sorry.  But things stopped making sense forme when my old college buddy tried to murder me on the Bahnhofstrasse."Lenz's eyes looked sorrowful.  "Tell me how you found this."Ben told Lenz about the events of the past several days, trying to stayas dispassionate as he could."Then you, too, know danger," Lenz said solemnly.  "There are filaments,invisible filaments, that link this photograph to those deaths."Frustration welled up in Ben as he struggled to make some sense ofeverything Lenz was telling him, tried to rearrange the pieces ofinformation to make a coherent picture.  Instead of becoming clearer,things were even more bewildering, more maddening.Ben was first conscious of Use's return to the room from the scent ofher perfume."This young man brings danger," she said to her husband, and her voicewas like sandpaper.  She turned to Ben.  "Forgive me, but I cannot keepsilent any longer.  You bring death to this house.  My husband has beenmenaced by extremists for so many years because of his fight forjustice.  I am sorry for what you have undergone.  But you are careless,the way you Americans always are.  You come to see my husband underfalse pretenses, pursuing some private vendetta of your own.""Please, Use," Lenz interjected."And now you have brought death here with you, like an unannouncedguest.  I would be grateful to you if you would leave my house.  Myhusband has done enough for the cause.  Must he give his life for it,too?""Use is upset," Lenz said apologetically.  "There are aspects of my lifethat she has never grown accustomed to.""No," Ben said.  "She's probably right.  I've already put too many livesin jeopardy."  His voice was hollow.Use's face was a mask, the muscles immobilized by fear.  "Gute Nacht,"she said with quiet finality.Walking Ben to the foyer, Lenz spoke with murmured urgency.  "If youwant, I'll be glad to help you.  To do what I can.  Pull strings where Iam able to, provide contacts.  But Use is right about one thing.  Youcan't know what you're up against.  I'd advise you to be cautious, myfriend."  There was something familiar about the harrowed look on Lenz'sface, and after a moment Ben realized that it reminded him of what he'dseen on Peter's.  Within both men, it seemed, a passion for justice hadbeen worn down by vast forces, and yet it could be mistaken for nothingelse.Ben left Lenz's house, dazed.  He was far over his head: why couldn't hejust admit that he was powerless, hopelessly unequipped for a task thathad defeated his own brother?  And the very facts he had alreadyestablished now ground deeper into his psyche, like glass shards underhis feet.  Max Hartman, philanthropist, Holocaust survivor,humanitarian-was he, in fact, a man like Gerhard Lenz, a confederate inbarbarity?  It was sickening to contemplate.  Might Max have beencomplicit in Peter's murder?  Was the man behind his own son's death?Was this why he'd suddenly disappeared?  So he wouldn't have to face hisown exposure?  And what about the complicity of the CIA?  How the helldid an Obersturmfuhrer in Hitler's SS come to emigrate and settle in theStates, if not with help from the U.S. government?  Were allies of his,very old friends indeed, behind the horrific events?  Was there somechance they were doing it on his father's behalf--to protect him andthemselves as well--without the old man's knowledge?You talk of things you cannot understand, his father had said, speakingpast him as much as to him.Ben was seized with conflicting emotions.  Part of him, the devoted,loyal son, wanted to believe that there was some other explanation, hadwanted to since Peter's revelations.  Some reason to believe his ownfather was not a ... a what?  A monster.  He heard his mother's voice,whispering as she died, pleading with him to understand, to try to healthe breach, to get along.  To love this complicated, difficult man whowas Max Hartman.While another part of Ben felt a welcome clarity.I've worked hard to understand you, you bastard!  Ben found himselfshouting inwardly.  I've tried to love you.  But a deception like this,the ugliness of your real life--how can I feel anything but hatred?He had parked, once again, a good distance from Lenz's house.  He didnot want his license plates to be traced back to him; at least, that hadbeen his thinking before, when he had assumed Lenz was one of theconspirators.He walked down the path in front of Lenz's house.  Just before hereached the street, he saw, in his peripheral vision, a light come on.It was the interior dome light of a car, just a few yards away.Someone was getting out of the car and walking toward him.Trevor saw a light come on across the street and turned his head tolook.  The front door was open.  The target was chatting with an oldergentleman, whom he assumed was Lenz.  Trevor waited until the two menhad shaken hands and the target was strolling down the front path beforehe got out of the car.CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR."I want you to run the plates," Heisler said on the police radio.  Heturned to Anna.  "If is not you, and not us, then who is it?  You musthave some idea.""Someone who's also staking out the house," she said.  "I don't likethis."She thought: Something else is going on here.  Should I tell Heisler mysuspicions about Hartman?  Yet it was such a half-baked bit ofspeculation --after all, what if Hartman was there simply to getinformation out of Lenz, information about where some of his father'sold friends might be living--and not to kill him?Still... they had all the legal justification they needed to storm thevilla.  And what if it turned out that, while they were all sitting herewatching the house, one of the city's leading citizens was inside beingmurdered?  The outcry would be enormous; it would be an internationalincident, and it would all be on her shoulders.Heisler interrupted her thoughts.  "I want you to walk by that car andlook at the man's face," he said.  It seemed an order, not a request."Make absolute certain you don't recognize."She agreed, wanting to see for herself."I need a weapon," she said.Heisler handed her his gun.  "You took this from floor of car.  I musthave left it.  I did not give it to you."She got out of the car and started walking toward Lenz's villa.The front door of Lenz's house came open.Two men were standing there, talking.  One older, one younger.Lenz and Hartman.Lenz was alive, she saw with relief.The two men shook hands cordially.  Then Hartman started down the pathtoward the street.And suddenly a light inside the Peugeot went on, and the man got out ofthe driver's seat, a trench coat draped over his right arm.  That waswhen she saw the man's face for the first time.The face!She knew the face.  She had seen it before.But where?The man with the trench coat over his arm closed his car door as Hartmanreached the street, not five yards away.Just for an instant she saw the man in profile.It stirred an old memory.A profile shot.  She had seen a profile shot of this man.  Front andside views.  The association was unpleasant, one of danger.Mug shots.  At work.  Fairly poor-quality photos of this man, front andprofile.  A bad guy.Yes, she had seen the photos once or twice in the Weekly IntelligenceBriefing.But they weren't mug shots, strictly speaking; they had beensurveillance photographs taken at a distance, magnified to the point ofgraininess.Yes.Not an ordinary criminal, of course.An assassin.The man was an international assassin, and an extraordinarilyaccomplished one.  Little was known about him--only fragmentary bits ofevidence had ever been gathered; as to his employers, assuming he wasn'ta freelancer, they had nothing at all.  But the evidence they hadsuggested someone of uncommon resourcefulness and range.  She flashed onanother photograph: the body of a labor leader in Barcelona, whom he wasbelieved to have slain.  The image had lodged in her memory, perhapsbecause of the way blood ran down the victim's shirt front like a necktie.  Another image: a popular political candidate in southern Italy, aman who had been leading a national reform movement.  His death wasoriginally attributed to the Mafia, but had been reclassified aftersnippets of information implicated a man they knew only as theArchitect.  The candidate, already under threats from organized crime,had been well protected, she recalled.  And the assassination had beenbrilliantly engineered, from the perspective not merely of ballisticsbut of politics as well.  The politician was shot dead while in abrothel staffed by illegal immigrants from Somalia, and the awkwardcircumstances ensured that his supporters could not transfigure hisdeath into martyrdom.The Architect.  An international assassin of the first order.Targeting Hartman.She tried to make sense of it: Hartman's on a vendetta, she thought. Andthe other man?Oh, my God.  Now what do I do?  Try to apprehend the killer?She held the transmitter to her lips, depressed the Talk button."I know this guy," she told Heisler.  "He's a professional assassin. I'mgoing to try to take him out.  You cover Hartman.""Pardon me," the man called out to Ben, striding quickly toward him.Something seems wrong with this guy, Ben thought.  Somethings off.The coat folded over his right arm.The rapid pace at which he was approaching.The face--a face he had seen before.  A face he would never forget.Ben slipped his right hand under his left jacket lapel, reached for thecold hard steel of the gun and was afraid.She needed Hartman alive; Hartman dead did her no good.The assassin was about to take out Hartman, she was certain. Everythingwas suddenly one complex calculation.  As far as she was concerned, itwas better for Hartman, her suspect, to flee than to be killed.  In anycase, she'd have to leave the pursuit of Hartman to the others.She raised Heisler's Clock.The assassin seemed unaware of her.  He was focused only on Hartman. Sheknew from her training that he had fallen victim to the professional'sgreatest weakness: target fixation.  He'd lost a sense of situationalawareness.  Big cats are most vulnerable to hunters precisely whenthey're tensing to pounce.Maybe that would give her the advantage she needed.Now she had to suddenly break his concentration, distract his attention."Freeze!"  she shouted.  "Halt, goddammit!"She saw Hartman turn and look at her.The assassin jerked his head slightly to the left but didn't turn to seewhere the shout had come from, didn't shift his catlike gaze away fromHartman.Anna aimed directly at the middle of the assassin's chest, at the centerof his mass.  It was a reflexive gesture for her; she had been trainedto shoot to kill, not to wound.But what was he doing now?  The hit man had turned back toward Hartman,who, she suddenly saw, had his own gun out.The Architect had his target in his sights; he assumed that whoever hadjust shouted wasn't an immediate threat, but in any case he had made hisown calculation.  To turn around and engage her--whoever she was--was tolose his target, and he was unwilling to do that.Suddenly the assassin began to turn She figured him wrong.His movements were as preternaturally smooth as a ballet dancer's.Pivoting on the balls of his feet, he turned one hundred and eightydegrees, his gun extended and firing all the while, in precise intervalsof a fraction of a second.  The gun scarcely bucked in his powerfulgrip.  Only when she turned to look did she realize what he hadaccomplished.  Good God!  A moment before, there were four armed Viennapolicemen who had drawn a bead on him.  Every one of them had now beenshot!  Each one of his shots had hit its target.  The four policemenwere down!It was a breathtaking execution, displaying a level of skill she hadnever encountered in her life.  She was filled with sheer terror.Now she heard panicked noises, the gasping and lowing of theincapacitated gunshot victims.The man was a professional; he had determined to eliminate allimpediments before turning back to his target--and she was his finalimpediment.But as he spun toward her, Anna had already aimed.  She heard Hartmanshout.  Now it was her turn to focus single-mindedly, and she squeezedthe trigger.Bull's-eye!The hit man tumbled to the ground, his gun clattering off to one side.She'd dropped him.Was he dead?Everything was chaos.  The suspect, Hartman, was tearing away down thestreet.But she knew the street was blockaded in both directions by the police.She ran toward the downed man, scooped up his gun, and continued runningafter Hartman.Amid the screams of the surviving gunshot victims, she heard shouts inGerman, but they meant nothing to her."Er steht aufl""Er lebt, er steht!""Nem, nimm den Verdachtigen!"Down the block, Hartman had run directly into the clustered team ofsurveillance experts, all of whom had their weapons out and aimed athim, and she heard more shouting' Halt  Keinen Schritt welter!""Polizei!  She sind verhaftet!"But a noise coming from behind her, from where the assassin lay,attracted her attention, and she turned around just in time to see theassassin stagger into his Peugeot and yank the door behind him.He was wounded, but he had survived, and now he was getting away!"Hey," she shouted to anyone, everyone, "stop him!  The Peugeot!  Don'tlet him escape!"They had Hartman; he was surrounded by five Polizei.  For now she couldsafely ignore him.  Instead, she lunged toward the Peugeot just as itroared to life and barreled straight toward her.On the few occasions when she'd permitted herself to replay in her mindher close encounter with the Lincoln Town Car in Halifax, she'dfantasized that she'd a gun in her hands and could fire at the driver.Now she did, and she squeezed off shot after shot at the man.  But thewindshield only pitted and spider-webbed in small areas, and the carkept bearing down on her.  She threw herself to one side, out of theway, just as the Peugeot thundered by, tires squealing, down the blockpast two empty surveillance cars--their drivers and passengers all onthe street now--and out of sight.He'd gotten away!"Shit!"  she shouted, turning back to see Hartman with his hands up.Shaken, she ran down the block toward her newly apprehended suspect.CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.Patient Eighteen was slowly jogging on a treadmill.A snorkel-like device came out of his mouth, connected to two longhoses.  His nose had been clamped shut.Taped to his crepey, concave bare chest were twelve wires that fed intoan EKG monitor.  Another wire sprouted from a small device clamped ontothe end of a forefinger.  He was sweating and looked pale."How are you doing?"  said the doctor, a tall gray-faced man.The patient could not talk, but he gave a trembling thumbs-up."Remember, there's a panic button right in front of you," the doctorsaid.  "Use it if you need to."Patient Eighteen kept jogging.The doctor said to his short, rotund colleague, "I think we're atmaximal exercise capacity.  He seems to have crossed the respiratoryexchange ratio--he's over one.  No signs of ischemia.  He's strong, thisone.  All right, let's give him the rest of the day off.  Tomorrow he'llbegin the treatment."For the first time all day, the gray-faced doctor allowed himself asmile.Princeton, New JerseyThe grand old Princeton historian was working in his study at DickinsonHall when the telephone rang.Everything in Professor John Barnes Godwin's office dated from theforties or fifties, whether it was the black rotary-dial phone or theoak card-catalog drawers or the Royal manual typewriter (he had no usefor computers).  He liked it that way, liked the way the old thingslooked, the solidity of objects from the time they made things out ofBakelite and wood and steel and not plastic, plastic, and plastic.He was not, however, one of those old men who lived in the past.  Heloved the world today.  Often he wished his darling Sarah, his wife offifty-seven years, were here to share it with him.  They had alwaysplanned to do a lot of traveling when he retired.Godwin was a historian of twentieth-century Europe, a winner of thePulitzer Prize whose lectures had always been immensely popular on thePrinceton campus.  Many of his former students now occupied positions ofgreat prominence in their fields.  The chairman of the Federal Reservehad been one of his brightest, as were the chairman of World Com boththe Secretary of Defense and the Deputy Secretary of Defense, the UnitedStates ambassador to the UN, countless members of the Council onEconomic Advisers, even the current chairman of the Republican NationalCommittee.Professor Godwin cleared his throat before answering the phone. "Hello."The voice was immediately familiar."Oh yes, Mr.  Holland, good to hear your voice.  We're still on, Ihope?"He listened for a moment.  "Of course I know him, he was a student ofmine ... Well, if you're asking for my opinion, I remember him ascharming if a bit strong-headed, very bright though not really anintellectual, or at least not interested in ideas for their own sake. Avery strong sense of moral purpose, I always thought.  But Ben Hartmanalways struck me as quite reasonable and levelheaded."He listened again.  "No, he's not a crusader.  He just doesn't have thattemperament.  And he's certainly no martyr.  I think he can be reasonedwith."Another pause."Well, none of us wants the project disrupted.  But I do wish you'd givethe fellow a chance.  I'd really hate to see anything happen to him."ViennaThe interrogation room was cold and bare, with the standard furnishingsof police interrogation rooms everywhere.  I'm becoming an expert, Benthought grimly.  The one-way observation mirror, unsubtle, and as big asa bedroom window in a suburban house.  The wire mesh over the windowoverlooking a bleak inner courtyard.The American woman sat across the small room, in a gray suit, coiled onthe metal folding chair like a clock spring.  She had identified herselfas Special Agent Anna Navarro of the U.S. Department of Justice, Officeof Special Investigations, and flashed an ID card to prove it.  She wasalso a serious beauty, a real stunner: wavy dark brown hair, eyes thecolor of caramel, olive skin; tall and slim and long-legged.  Nicelydressed, too--a sense of style, which had to be rare in the Departmentof Justice.  Yet she was all business, not a hint of a smile.  No ring,which probably meant divorced, because women this gorgeous were usuallysnatched up early, no doubt by some gallant fellow governmentinvestigator with a square chin who'd wooed her with tales of hisbravery in apprehending miscreants until the stress of two high-poweredgovernment careers had taken its toll on the marriage ... In the foldingchair next to her sat a bruiser of a cop, a beefy guy who sat silent andbrooding and chain-smoking Casablanca cigarettes. Ben had no ideawhether the cop understood English.  He'd only said his name: SergeantWalter Heisler of the Sicherheitsburo, the major-crimes squad of theViennese police.Half an hour into the questioning, Ben became impatient.  He'd triedbeing reasonable, tried to talk sense, but his interrogators wereimplacable.  "Am I under arrest?"  he asked finally."Do you want to be?"  Agent Navarro snapped back.Oh, good God, not this again."Does she have the right to do this?"  Ben asked of the hulking Viennesecop, who just smoked and stared at him bovinely.Silence."Well?"  Ben demanded.  "Who's in charge here?""As long as you answer my questions, there's no reason to arrest you,"Agent Navarro said.  "Yet.""So I'm free to go.""You're being held for questioning.  Why were you visiting Jorgen Lenz?You still haven't explained properly.""As I said, it was a social visit.  Ask Lenz.""Are you in Vienna for business or pleasure?""Both.""You don't have any business meetings lined up.  Is that the way younormally travel on business?""I like to be spontaneous.""You were booked for five days at a ski resort in the Swiss Alps, butyou never showed up there.""I changed my mind.""Why do I doubt that?""I have no idea.  I felt like seeing Vienna.""So you just showed up in Vienna with no hotel reservations.""As I said, I like to be spontaneous.""I see," said Agent Navarro, clearly frustrated.  "And your visit toGaston Rossignol, in Zurich was that business as well?"My God, so they knew about that, too!  But how?  He felt a wave ofpanic."He was a friend of a friend.""And that's how you treat a friend of a friend you kill him?"Oh, Christ.  "He was dead when I got there!""Really," Navarro said, clearly unconvinced.  "Was he expecting you?""No.  I just showed up.""Because you like to be spontaneous.""I wanted to surprise him.""Instead he surprised you, huh?""It was a shock, yes.""How did you get to Rossignol?  Who put you in touch with him?"Ben hesitated, a beat too long.  "I'd rather not say."She picked up on it.  "Because he was no mutual acquaintance or anythinglike that, was he?  What was Rossignol's connection to your father?"What the hell did that mean?  How much did she know?  Ben looked at hersharply."Let me tell you something," Anna Navarro said dryly.  "I know yourtype.  Rich boy, always gets whatever he wants.  Whenever you getyourself in deep doodoo, your daddy saves you, or maybe the familylawyer bails you out.  You're used to doing whatever the hell you wantand you think you'll never have to pay the bill.  Well, not this time,my friend."Ben smiled involuntarily, but he refused to give her the satisfaction ofputting up an argument."Your father is a Holocaust survivor, is that right?"  she persisted.So she doesn't know everything.Ben shrugged.  "That's what I'm told."  She certainly wasn't entitled tothe truth."And Rossignol was a big-deal Swiss banker, right?"  She was watchinghim closely now.What was she driving at?  "That's why you and all those Austrian copswere staked out in front of Lenz's house," he said.  "You were there toarrest me.""No, actually," the American woman said coolly.  "To talk to you.""You could have just asked to talk to me.  You didn't need half theVienna police force.  I'll bet you'd love to pin the Rossignol murder onme.  Gets the CIA off the hook, right?  Or do you Justice Departmentguys hate the CIA?  I get confused."Agent Navarro leaned forward, her soft brown eyes gone hard.  "Why wereyou carrying a gun?"Ben hesitated, but just for a second or two.  "For protection.""Is that right."  A statement of skepticism, not a question.  "Are youregistered to carry a gun in Austria?""I believe that's a matter between me and the Austrian authorities.""The Austrian authorities are sitting in this chair next to me.  If hedecides to prosecute you for illegally carrying a gun, I won't stand inhis way.  The Austrians strongly disapprove of foreign visitors carryingunregistered weapons."Ben shrugged.  She had a point, of course.  Though it seemed the leastof his worries right now."So let me tell you this, Mr.  Hartman," Agent Navarro said.  "I find ita little hard to believe that you carried a gun to visit a 'friend of afriend."  Particularly when your fingerprints were found all overRossignol's house.  Understand?""No, not really.  Are you accusing me of murdering him?  If so, whydon't you come right out and say it?"  He was finding it hard tobreathe, his tension steadily rising."The Swiss think your brother had a vendetta against the bankingestablishment.  Maybe something in you got twisted when he died,something that made you take his pursuit of them to a more lethal level.It wouldn't be hard to show motive.  And then there are yourfingerprints.  I think a Swiss court would have no problem convictingyou."Did she genuinely believe he'd murdered Rossignol and if so, why wasthis special investigator from the Department of Justice so interested?He had no idea how much power she really had here, what kind of troublehe was really in, and the uncertainty alone made him anxious.  Don't bedefensive, he thought.  Fight back.Ben sat back.  "You have no authority here.""Absolutely right.  But I don't need authority."What the hell did she mean?  "So what do you want from me?""I want information.  I want to know why you were really visitingRossignol.  Why you were really visiting Jurgen Lenz.  What you'rereally up to, Mr.  Hartman.""And if I don't care to share?"  He tried to project an image ofconfidence.She cocked her head.  "Would you like to find out what'll happen?  Whydon't you spin the wheel and take a chance?"Jesus, she was good, Ben thought.  He breathed deeply.  The room's wallsseemed to be closing in.  He kept his face blank, unreadable.She continued: "Do you know that there's a warrant for your arrest inZurich?"Ben shrugged.  "That's a laugh."  He decided that it was time for him tobe aggressive, aggrieved, un defensive as a wrongfully arrested Americanwould be.  "Maybe I know the ways of the Swiss a little better than youdo.  For one thing, they'll swear out a warrant if you spit out your gumon the sidewalk.  For another, there's no goddamn possibility ofextradition."  He'd established this much from his conversations withHowie.  "The canton of Zurich has a hard enough time getting cooperationfrom the Polizei of the other Swiss cantons.  And the fact that theSwiss have made a name for themselves in harboring tax fugitives meansthat other countries ignore Swiss extradition requests as a matter ofpolicy."  These were Howie's words, and he recited them stolidly, facingher down.  She might as well know that she couldn't game him.  "TheZurich bulls claim they want me for 'questioning."  They don't evenpretend to have a case.  So why don't we cut the crap here?"She leaned closer.  "It's a matter of public record that your brotherhad been trying to build a case against the Swiss banking establishment.Gaston Rossignol was a preeminent Swiss banker.  You visit him, and heturns up dead.  Let's get back to that.  Then suddenly you're in Viennameeting with the son of an infamous Nazi. And your father was in aconcentration camp.  It looks an awful lot like some kind of vengeancetrip you're on."So that was it.  Maybe it would look like that to someone who didn'tknow the truth.  But I can't tell her the truth!"That's preposterous," Ben snapped.  "I don't even want to dignify yourfantasies about vendettas and violence.  You talk about Swiss bankers. Ido deals with these people, Agent Navarro.  It's my job. Internationalfinance doesn't really lend itself to murderous rampages, O.K.?  In myworld, the main injuries you inflict are paper cuts.""Then explain what happened on the Bahnhofplatz.""I can't.  I've been through that with the Swiss bulls over an doveragain.""And explain how you tracked down Rossignol."Ben shook his head."And the others.  Come on.  I want to know where you got their names andtheir whereabouts."Ben just looked at her."Where were you on Wednesday?""I don't recall.""Nova Scotia, by any chance?""Come to think of it, I was being arrested in Zurich," he shot back."You can check with your friends at the Zurich police.  See, I like toget arrested in every country I visit.  It's really the best way toappreciate the local customs."She ignored his barb.  "Tell me what got you arrested.""You know as well as I do."Navarro turned to her brooding sidekick, who exhaled a plume of smoke,then looked back at Ben.  "Several times in the last couple of days youyourself were almost killed.  Including today--"In his dull, dazed anxiety, he was surprised to feel a warm rush ofgratitude.  "You saved my life.  I guess I should thank you.""Damn right you should," she replied.  "Now tell me, why do you thinksomeone was trying to kill you?  Who might have known what you were upto?"Nice try, lady.  "I have no idea.""I'll bet you have some idea.""Sorry.  Maybe you can ask your friends over at the CIA what they'retrying to cover up.  Or is your office involved in the cover-up, too?""Mr.  Hartman, your twin brother was killed in Switzerland, in asuspicious plane crash.  More recently, you've had some unexplainedconnection to shootings in that country.  Death seems to follow youaround like a cheap cologne.  What am I supposed to think?""Think whatever you like.  I didn't commit any crime.""I'm going to ask you this one more time: Where did you get their namesand addresses?""Whose?""Rossignol and Lenz.""I told you, mutual acquaintances.""I don't believe that.""Believe what you like.""What are you hiding?  Why don't you level with me, Mr.  Hartman?""Sorry.  I've got nothing to hide."Agent Navarro folded, then unfolded, her long shapely legs.  "Mr.Hartman," she said with utmost exasperation.  "I'm going to offer you adeal.  You cooperate with me, and I'll do my best to get the Swiss andthe Austrians to back off."Was she sincere?  His distrust had become almost a reflex, "Given thatyou seem to be the one pushing them to come after me, that strikes me asa hollow promise.  I don't have to stay here any longer, do I?"She watched him silently, nibbling at the inside of a cheek.  "No." Shetook out a business card and jotted something down on the back of it,then handed it to him.  "If you change your mind, here's my hotel inVienna."It was over.  Thank God.  He inhaled, felt the air reach the very bottomof his lungs, the anxiety suddenly lift."Nice to meet you, Agent Navarro," Ben said, rising.  "And thanks againfor saving my life."CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.The pain was intense and overwhelming; another man would have passedout.  Gathering his powers of mental concentration, Trevor assigned thepain to another body--a vividly imagined doppelganger, someone who wasconvulsed with agony but who was not he.  By sheer force of will, hemanaged to find his way through the streets of Vienna to a building onTaborstrasse.Then he remembered that the car was stolen--his thinking was sluggish,that was what alarmed him most of all--and he drove five blocks away andabandoned it, the keys dangling from the ignition.  Maybe some idiotwould steal it and get caught in the citywide dragnet that was sure tofollow.He limped down the street, ignoring the many glances of the passersby.He knew his suit jacket was drenched with his own blood; he had put thetrench coat on over it, but even that, too, had gotten soaked through.He had lost a great deal of blood.  He felt lightheaded.He was able to get back to Taborstrasse, to the street-level officemarked with a brass plaque that said dr.  the odor schreiber, internist& GENERAL SURGEON.The office was dark, and there was no answer when he buzzed.  Trevordidn't find this surprising, since it was after eight o'clock in theevening, and Dr.  Schreiber kept regular hours.  But he kept ringing thebell anyway.  Schreiber lived in the flat behind his small office, andthe bell rang in his living quarters as well, Trevor knew.After five minutes, the light went on in the office, and then a voicecame through the speaker, loud and annoyed: "}a>.""Dr.  Schreiber, es is Christoph.  Es 1st ein Notfall."The front door of the building unlocked electronically.  Then the dooroff the lobby, marked with the doctor's name on another brass plaque,unlocked as well.Dr.  Schreiber was disgruntled.  "You have interrupted my dinner," hesaid gravely.  "I trust it is important " He noticed the blood-soakedtrench coat.  "All right, all right, follow me."  The physician turnedand walked back toward the examination room.Dr.  Schreiber had a sister who lived in Dresden, in East Germany, fordecades.  Until the Wall came down, this simple accident of geography hehad escaped from East Berlin in 1961, while his sister had been forcedto stay behind had been enough to give East German intelligence leverageover the doctor.But Stasi did not seek to blackmail him or to turn him into some sort ofspy, as if a physician could ever be useful as a spy.  No, Stasi had afar more mundane use for him: simply to serve as a doctor on call forits agents in Austria in cases of emergency.  Physicians in Austria, asin many countries in the world, are required by law to report gunshotwounds to the police.  Dr.  Schreiber would be more discreet than thatwhen the occasional wounded Stasi agent appeared at his office, usuallyin the middle of the night.Trevor, who had lived as a Stasi illegal in London for many years beforehe was recruited to Sigma, had from time to time been dispatched toVienna, under the cover of business travel, and twice he had needed tovisit the good doctor.Even now that the Cold War was long over, and Schreiber's days of covertassistance to East Germany were pretty much finished, Trevor had littledoubt that the physician would cooperate.  Schreiber could still beprosecuted for his covert assistance to Stasi.  That he would not want.But his vulnerability did not keep Dr.  Schreiber from bristling withresentment.  "You are a most fortunate man," the doctor said brusquely."The bullet, you see, entered just over your heart.  A slightly moredirect angle and you would have died immediately.  Instead, it appearsto have entered at an oblique angle, digging a sort of trench in theskin and the fatty tissue beneath.  It even tore away some of thesurface fibers of the pectoralis major, your breast muscle.  And exitedright here, at the axilla.  You must have turned just in time."Dr.  Schreiber glanced over his half-glasses at Trevor, who did notreply.He poked with a pair of forceps, and Trevor winced.  The pain wasoverwhelming.  His body was suffused with an unpleasant prickly heat."It also came close to causing great damage to the nerves and bloodvessels in the area of the brachial plexus.  Had it done so, you'd havelost the use of your right arm permanently.  Maybe even lost the armitself.""I'm left-handed," Trevor said.  "Anyway, I don't need to know the gorydetails.""Yes," the doctor said absently.  "Well, you really should go to thehospital, the Allgemeines Krankenhaus, if we're going to do this right.""That's out of the question, and you know it."  A lightning bolt of painshot down his arm.The doctor changed into his scrubs, and injected several syringes of alocal anesthetic around the wound.  With a small pair of scissors andforceps he excised some blackened tissue, irrigated the wound, and thenset about suturing it.Trevor could feel a deep, tugging discomfort, but no real pain.  Hegritted his teeth.  "I want you to make sure the wound doesn't open upif I move around," he said."You should take it easy for a little while.""I'm a fast healer.""That's right," the doctor said.  "I remember now."  The man was a fasthealer--freakishly so."Time is the one luxury I don't have," Trevor said.  "I want you to sewit up tight.""Then I can use heavier suture materials--3-0 nylon, say--but it mayleave a rather ugly scar.""It doesn't concern me.""Fine," the doctor said, turning back to his steel cart of equipment.When he had finished, he said, "For the pain, I can give you someDemerol."  He added dryly, "Or would you prefer to go without anything?""Some ibuprofen should be enough," Trevor said."As you wish."Trevor stood, wincing.  "All right then, I appreciate your help."  Hehanded the doctor a few thousand-shilling notes.The physician looked at him and said, quite insincerely, "Any time."Anna splashed her face with hot water.  Thirty times, her mother hadtrained her: her mother's only vanity.  Keeps the skin vital andglowing.Over the running water she heard the phone ringing.  Grabbing a towel todry her face, she ran to catch it."Anna, it's Robert Polozzi.  Am I calling you too late?"Robert Polozzi from ID Section."No, not at all, Robert.  What is it?""Listen: about the patent search."She'd forgotten about the patent search.  She patted her dripping face.He said: "The neurotoxin ""Oh, right.  You found something?""So get this.  May 16 of this year, patent number well, it's a longnumber anyway, a patent for this exact synthetic compound was appliedfor by a small Philadelphia-based biotech company called Vortex.  It'sa, it says, 'a synthetic analog of the venom of the conus sea snail forproposed in-vitro applications."  And then some mumbo jumbo about'localizing ion channels' and 'tagging chemochyme receptors."" Hepaused, then resumed, his voice tentative.  "I called the place. Vortex,I mean.  On a pretext, of course."A little unorthodox, but she didn't mind.  "Learn anything?""Well, not exactly.  They say their stocks of this toxin are minimal andunder tight control.  It's hard to produce, so they don't have much, andanyway the stuff is used in ridiculously tiny quantities, and it's stillexperimental.  I asked them whether it could be used as a poison, andthe guy I talked to, the scientific director of the firm, said of courseit could the conus sea snail's venom, as found in nature, is highlydeadly.  He said a tiny amount could induce immediate heart failure."She felt a growing excitement.  "He told you the stuff is under tightcontrol that means it's under lock and key?""Right.""And this guy strikes you as on the level?""I think so, but who knows.""Great work, thanks.  Can you find out from them whether any of theirsupply of this stuff has been found missing or otherwise unaccountedfor?""Already did," the researcher said proudly.  "The answer's no."A pang of disappointment.  "Can you find out for me everything you canabout Vortex?  Owners, principals, employees, and so on?""Will do."She hung up, sat on the edge of the bed, pondered.  It was possible thattugging at this thread would unravel the conspiracy behind the murders.Or unravel nothing.The whole investigation was proving increasingly frustrating.  Nor hadthe Vienna police had any luck chasing down the shooter.  The shooter'sPeugeot had previously been reported stolen surprise, surprise.  Anotherdead end.This Hartman she found baffling.  Against her will she also found himappealing, even attractive.  But he was a type.  A golden boy, born tomoney, graced with good looks, overconfident.  He was Brad, the footballplayer who'd raped her.  The world cut men like that a break. Men likethat, a blunt-speaking girlfriend of hers in college used to say,thought their shit didn't stink.  They thought they could get away withanything.But was he a killer?  Somehow it seemed unlikely.  She believed hisversion of what had happened at Rossignol's in Zurich; it jibed with thefingerprint patterns and with her own sense of him.  Yet he was carryinga gun, passport control had no record of him arriving in Austria, andhe'd offered no explanation for that.... On the other hand, a thoroughsearch of his car hadn't revealed anything.  No syringe, no poisons,nothing.Whether he was a part of this conspiracy was hard to say.  He'd thoughthis brother had been killed four years ago; maybe that murder had beenthe catalyst for those murders that came later.  But why so many, and insuch a short span of time?The fact remained: Benjamin Hartman knew more.  Yet she didn't have theauthority, or the grounds, to hold him.  It was deeply frustrating. Shewondered whether her desire all right, obsession to get him had to dowith the rich-boy thing, the old wounds, Brad ... She took her addressbook from the end table, looked up a phone number, and dialed.It rang several times before a gravelly male voice answered, "Donahue."Donahue was a money-laundering guru at DOJ, and she'd quietly enlistedhis help before she'd left for Switzerland.  No context; just someaccount information.  Donahue didn't mind being kept in the dark aboutthe nature of her investigation; he seemed to regard it as a challenge."It's Anna Navarro," she said."Oh yeah, right, how ya doin' there, Anna?"She found herself switching into her regular-guy voice.  This she dideasily; it was how her father's buddies talked, her neighbors back home."Doin' good, thanks.  How're we doin' on the money trace?""Na-a-ah, nothin'.  We're buttin' our heads against a big brick wall.It's lookin' like each of the dead guys got regular contributions bootedinto their accounts from some haven country.  Cayman Islands, BritishVirgins, Curacao.  That's where we keep hittin' the wall.""What happens when you go to these offshore banks with an officialrequest?"A short bark of derision from Donahue.  "They give us the finger.  Wegive 'em an MLAT request for their financial records, they say they'llget around to it some time next few years."  MLAT, she knew, was themutual assistance treaty, which in principle obtained between the UnitedStates and many of these offshore havens.  "BVI and Caymans are theworst, they tell us maybe two, three years it'll take 'em.""Huh.""But even if they should just open up the magic doors and show useverything, all we're going to get is where they got the money from, andyou can bet your paycheck it's some other offshore.  Isle of Man,Bahamas, Bermuda, Lux, San Marino, Anguilla.  Probably a whole chain ofoff shores and shell companies.  These days money can zip around theworld, movin' between a dozen accounts in, like, seconds.""Mind if I ask you something?"  she said."Go 'head.""How do you guys ever get anything on money-laundering?""Oh, we get stuff," he said, a little defensively.  "It just takesyears.""Great," she said.  "Thanks."In a small room on the fifth floor of the Sicherheitsburo, at Viennapolice headquarters on Rossauer Lande, a young man sat before a computerscreen, wearing headphones.  From time to time he snubbed out acigarette in a large gold ashtray that sat on the gray Formica tablenext to a No Smoking sign.In a small box on the top left of the screen was the telephone number hewas monitoring, along with the date, the start time, duration of callmeasured in a tenth of a second, the telephone number called. Elsewhereon the screen was a list of telephone numbers, representing each callmade from this number.  All you had to do was to move the cursor to anyof the numbers and double-click, and the digitally recorded conversationwould start playing, either on the headphones or through the externalspeakers.  Little red bars would dance as the volume fluctuated.  Youcould adjust not only the volume but even the speed of playback.Every telephone call the woman had made from her hotel room was recordedonto this computer's hard disk.  The technology was most impressive; ithad been provided to the Vienna police by the Israelis.The door to the little room opened and in came Detective Sergeant WalterHeisler across the institutional green linoleum floor.  He, too, wassmoking.  He gave a little jerk of his head by way of greeting. The techremoved his headphones, put out his cigarette, looked up."Anything interesting?"  the detective asked."Most of the calls have been to Washington.""Strictly speaking, we're supposed to inform Interpol when we record anyinternational calls."  There was a twinkle in the detective's eye.The tech raised his eyebrows in silent complicity.Heisler pulled up a chair.  "Mind if I join you?"CaliforniaThe young billionaire computer mogul Arnold Carr took the call on hiscellular phone while he was strolling through a redwood forest inNorthern California with his old friend and mentor the investment whizRoss Cameron.The two were spending a weekend in the company of some of America'srichest and most powerful men at the exclusive retreat known as theBohemian Grove.  There was some sort of idiotic game called paint ballgoing on back at the encampment, presided over by the chief executive ofBank America and the U.S. ambassador to the Court of St.  James.But Carr, the founder of a vastly successful software company, rarelyhad the chance to hang out with his billionaire buddy Ross Cameron, theso-called sage of Sante Fe.  So they had spent a lot of time hikingthrough the woods talking about money and business, philanthropy and artcollecting, their kids, and the extraordinary, highly secret projectthey had both been invited to join.Carr pulled the tiny, burring phone out of the pocket of his Pendletonplaid shirt with visible annoyance.  Hardly anyone had this number, andthe few employees who'd dare call had been instructed not to bother himfor any reason during his retreat weekend."Yeah," Carr said."Mr.  Carr, I'm so sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning," the voicepurred.  "This is Mr.  Holland.  I hope I didn't wake you."Carr recognized the voice instantly.  "Oh, no way," he said, suddenlycordial.  "I've been up for hours.  What's up?"When "Mr.  Holland" had finished, Carr said, "Let me see what I can do."CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.Ben arrived at his hotel around nine o'clock at night, hungry but unableto eat, jittery from too much caffeine.  He'd taken a cab from policeheadquarters, since driving the Opel Vectra was out of the question. Twoof its windows had been shattered in the shootout, the leather seatscovered with rounded shards of glass.The lobby was quiet, the hotel guests either out at dinner or returnedto their rooms.  Several Oriental rugs overlapped one another; here andthere patches of highly polished marble floor gleamed.The concierge, a too-slick middle-aged man with alert eyes behindsteel-rimmed glasses, handed him the room key before Ben said a word."Thanks," Ben said.  "Any messages for me?"  Perhaps the privatedetective.The concierge tapped at his computer keyboard.  "No, sir, just the oneyou already retrieved.""Which one was that?"  What?  he thought, alarmed.  / haven't gotten asingle message since I got to Vienna."I don't know, sir.  You called in a few hours ago."  More tapping. "Atsix-twenty this evening you got a message from the hotel operator.""Could you give it to me again?"  This was either a mistake or... "I'msorry, sir, once the guest retrieves a message, it's deleted from thesystem."  He gave Ben a feral smile.  "We can't keep all messagesforever, you know."Ben took the small brass-cage elevator to the fourth floor, nervouslyfingering the large brass sphere that dangled from the room key.  Hecouldn't put it past Agent Navarro to have had some male colleague callthe hotel to get his messages, see whom he was in touch with.But who had left a message?  Besides Agent Navarro, only the privatedetective knew his whereabouts.  It was surely too late to call thedetective, Hans Hoffman; he wouldn't be in his office this late atnight.Navarro was suspicious about his motives, yet she couldn't seriouslythink he had killed Rossignol.  Could she?  She had to know she wasn'tdealing with a serial murderer.  After all, she'd mentioned she hadexpertise in homicide; she had to know who fit the profile and whodidn't.So what was she really after?Was it possible she was actually working for the CIA or some grayhairedcontingent thereof, mopping up, helping cover up their involvement byshifting suspicion to him?And the fact remained: Gaston Rossignol, a founder of this mysteriouscorporation that might or might not have had CIA involvement, had justbeen murdered.  As had Peter, whose single error, it seemed, was to havedug up a list of directors of this very same corporation.  Had the samepeople killed both of them?  It certainly seemed likely.But American killers?  CIA?It was difficult to fathom.  Jimmy Cavanaugh was an American ... Yetcouldn't he have been working for foreigners?And then there was Max's baffling disappearance.Why had he vanished?  Godwin had shed no light on that mystery.  Why hadMax called Godwin just before leaving?Was his father dead now, too?It was time to place another call to Bedford.He walked down the long corridor, struggled with the room key for amoment, and then the door came open.  He froze.The lights were off.Yet he had left all the lights in the room on when he'd left.  Hadsomeone turned them off?Oh, come on, he told himself.  Surely the chambermaid had turned themoff.  The Austrians prided themselves on being environmentallyconscientious.Was he over thinking this?  Was he being ridiculously paranoid?  Wasthis what the last few days had done to him?Still... Quietly, without entering, he closed the door, turned the keyto lock it again, and went back down the hall in search of a porter orbell captain.  None was anywhere to be seen.  He circled back and tookthe stairs down to the third floor.  There, at the end of another longhall, he spotted a porter coming out of a room."Excuse me," Ben said, accelerating his stride.  "Can you help me?"The young porter turned.  "Sir?""Listen," Ben said, "I locked myself out of my room.  Can you let mein?"  He palmed the porter a fifty-shilling note, about eight dollars,and added sheepishly, "This is the second time I've done it.  I don'twant to have to go back to the concierge.  It's up one flight.Four-sixteen.""Oh yes, certainly, sir.  Ah, moment please."  He searched through aring of keys on his belt.  "Yes, sir, please."They took the elevator up to the fourth floor.  The porter opened thedoor to 416.  Feeling a little foolish, Ben stood behind him and off toone side, so that he could see into the room at an oblique angle,without being seen.He noticed a shape, a silhouette!  The figure of a man outlined againstbacklight from the open bathroom door.  The man was crouching down,pointing a long-barreled gun toward the door!The man turned, and his face became visible.  It was the assassin who'dtried to kill him a few hours ago in front of Jurgen Lenz's villa!  Theassassin in the Swiss auberge.The man who killed his brother.The porter screamed, "No!"  and ran away down the hall.For a moment the killer was confused he'd expected Ben, not a uniformedhotel employee.  The hesitation was long enough for Ben to take off.Behind him came a series of muted spits, then the much louder explosionsof bullets pocking the walls.  The porter's screams became even louder,more frantic, and the gunfire came closer, and then came the racingfootsteps of the gunman, and Ben put on a burst of speed. Straight aheadwas the door to the stairway, and he quickly rejected it he didn't wantto be a prisoner in a stairwell with an armed killer after him.  Insteadhe whipped around the corridor to the right, saw an open room door, ahousekeeping cart in front of it, and he leaped into the room, swingingthe door shut behind him.  His back pressed against the door, he gaspedfor breath, wondering whether the killer had seen him enter the room. Heheard muffled footsteps racing by: the killer had passed.  He heard theporter shout, calling someone; he didn't sound as if he'd been wounded,which was a relief.A cry from inside the room!  He saw a small, dark-skinned maid in alight blue uniform cowering in the corner of the room."Quiet!"  Ben hissed."Who are you?"  the maid gasped, terrified.  She spoke in heavilyaccented English.  "Please don't hurt me!""Quiet," Ben repeated.  "Get down.  If you keep quiet, you won't gethurt!"The maid flattened herself against the carpeting, whimpering in abjectterror."Matches!"  Ben said.  "I need matches!""The ashtray!  Please the desk, next to the television!"Ben found them and located the smoke heat detector mounted on theceiling above him.  He stood on a chair, lit a match, held it to thecoil.  In a few seconds he could hear the Klaxon of a fire alarmsounding in the room and in the corridor outside a rasping metallicshriek caterwauling at regular, rapid intervals.  The sound waseverywhere!  Shouts and screams came from the hall as hotel guests ranfrom their rooms.  In another few seconds, water began spraying from thesprinkler system in the ceiling, drenching the carpet and bed.  The maidscreamed again as Ben turned and opened the door, quickly looking out ineither direction.  The hall was chaos: people running about, somehuddled in bafflement, gesturing this way and that, yelling to oneanother as water spewed from the sprinklers all along the ceiling thelength of the corridor.  Ben ran out of the room, joining the frenziedcrowd in a rush to the stairwell.  He knew, from the height of the mainstaircase that led into the hotel's front entrance, that the stairwellhad to have its own exit onto the street or back alley.The stairwell door opened onto a dark corridor, illuminated only by aflickering, buzzing fluorescent ceiling fixture, but it was enough lightto make out the double doors of the hotel kitchen.  He raced toward it,pushed the doors open without stopping, and saw the inevitable serviceentrance.  He reached the door, felt the flow of cold air from theoutside, slid open the heavy steel bolt, and pulled the massive dooropen.  A ramp led down into a narrow alley crowded with trashcans.  Hepropelled himself down, and, with fire engine sirens sounding in thedistance, disappeared into the dark alley.Twenty minutes later he came to the tall modern building overlooking theDanube canal, on the far side of the Stadtpark, a characterless Americanhotel that was part of an international chain.  He strode purposefullythrough the lobby to the elevators, a hotel guest who obviouslybelonged.He knocked on the door of Room 1423.Special Agent Anna Navarro cracked open the door.  She was in flannelnightgown, her makeup was off, and yet she was luminous.  "I think I'mready to cooperate," Ben said.Anna Navarro fixed Hartman a drink from the honor bar: a toy bottle ofScotch, a little green bottle of mineral water, a few miniature cubes ofice from the tiny freezer.  She was, if possible, even more businesslikethan she'd been at the police station.  Over her flannel nightgown she'dcinched a white terry-cloth robe.  Probably it didn't help, Benreflected, having a strange man in the close quarters of her hotel roomwhen she was dressed for bed.Ben took the drink gratefully.  It was watery.  She was not a drinker.But shaken as he was, he needed a drink badly, and it did the job.Despite the sofa on which he sat, the room was not set up for visitors.She started to sit facing him, on the edge of the bed, then rejected itin favor of a big wing chair, which she pulled out at an angle to thesofa.The plate-glass window was a black pointillist canvas.  From up here,Vienna was neon-lit, its lights twinkling under the starry sky.Navarro leaned forward, crossed her legs.  She was barefoot, her feetslender and high-arched, delicate, the toenails painted."It was the same guy, you think?"  Her abrasive edge was gone.Ben took another sip.  "Definitely.  I'll never forget his face."She sighed.  "And I thought at least I'd seriously wounded him.  Fromeverything I've heard, this guy's incredibly dangerous.  And what he didto those four policemen--astonishing.  Like an execution machine. Youwere lucky.  Or maybe I should say you were smart--sensing somethingwasn't right, using the porter to confuse him, putting our friend offbalance, buying yourself time to escape.  Well done."He shrugged in self-deprecation, secretly pleased by the unexpectedcompliment.  "You know something about this guy?""I've read a dossier, but it's incomplete.  He's believed to live inEngland, probably London.""He's British?""Formerly East German intelligence--Stasi.  Their field agents wereamong the most highly trained.  Certainly some of the most ruthless.Seems to have left the organization a long time ago.""What's he doing living in England?""Who knows?  Maybe avoiding the German authorities, like most of hisex-colleagues.  What we don't know is whether he's an assassin for hire,or whether he's in the employ of some organization with diverseinterests.""His name?""Vogler, I think.  Hans Vogler.  Obviously here on some sort of job."Some sort of job.  / am next.  Ben felt numb."You said he might be in some organization's employ.""That's what we say when we haven't figured out the pattern yet."  Shepursed her lips.  "You might be in some organization's employ, and Idon't mean Hartman Capital Management.""You still don't believe me, do you?""Well, who are you?  What are you really up to?""Oh, come on," he said heatedly.  "Don't tell me you guys don't have agod damned file on me!"She glared.  "All I know about you are isolated facts without a logicalexplanation tying them all together.  You say you were in Zurich whensuddenly someone from your past pops up and tries to kill you andinstead gets killed himself.  And then his body disappears.  Next thingI know, you've entered Switzerland illegally.  Then your fingerprintsturn up all over the house of a banker named Rossignol, who you claimwas dead when you got there.  You carry a gun, though where you got itand why you won't say."Ben listened in silence, letting her go on."Why were you meeting with this Lenz, this son of a famous Nazi?"Ben blinked, unsure how much to divulge.  But before he could formulatea reply, she spoke again.  "Here's what I want to know.  What does Lenzhave in common with Rossignol?"Ben drained his Scotch.  "My brother ..."  he began."The one who died four years ago.""So I thought.  He turned out to be hiding from some dangerous people.He didn't know who they were, exactly; I still don't know.  Someconclave of industrialists, or their descendants, or maybe CIAhirelings, maybe something else entirely who knows?  But apparently he'duncovered a list of names "Agent Navarro's caramel eyes grew wide.  "What kind of list?""A very old one."Her face flushed.  "Where did he get this list?""He came across it in the archives of a Swiss bank.""A Swiss bank?""It's a list of board members of a corporation that was founded in thelast days of the Second World War.""Jesus Christ," she breathed.  "So that's it."Ben drew a folded, grimy square of paper from his breast pocket andhanded it to her.  "Sorry, it's a bit soiled.  I've been keeping it inmy shoe.  To keep it out of the hands of people like you."She perused it, frowning.  "Max Hartman.  Your father?""Alas.""Did he tell you about this corporation?""No way.  My brother came across it.""But wasn't your father a Holocaust survivor ?""And now we come to the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.""Wasn't there some physical mark a tattoo or something?""A tattoo?  At Auschwitz, yes.  At Dachau, no."She didn't seem to be listening.  "My God," she said.  "The string ofmysterious homicides every single name is here."  She seemed to bespeaking to herself, not to him.  "Rossignol... Prosperi... Ramago ...they're all here.  No, they're not all on my list.  Some overlap,but..."  She looked up.  "What did you hope to learn from Rossignol?"What was she getting at?  "I thought he might know why my brother waskilled, and who did it.""But he was himself killed before you got to him.""So it seems.""Did you look into this Sigma company, try to locate it, trace itshistory?"Ben nodded.  "But I turned up nothing.  Then again, maybe it neverexisted, if you know what I mean."  Seeing her frown, he went on.  "Anotional entity, like a shell company.""What kind of shell company?"Ben shook his head.  "I don't know.  Something involving Americanmilitary intelligence, maybe."  He told her of Lenz's worries."I don't think I buy it.""Why not?""I work for the government, don't forget.  The bureaucracy leaks like asieve.  They'd never be able to coordinate a series of murders withoutthe world finding out.""Then what do you figure the link is?  Apart from the obvious, I mean.""I'm not sure how much I can tell you.""Look," Ben said fiercely, "if we're going to share information if we'regoing to help each other you can't hold back.  You have to trust me."She nodded, then seemed to come to a decision.  "For one thing, theyaren't, or weren't, janitors, believe me, none of them.  They all hadgreat, visible wealth, or most of them, anyway.  The only one who livedmodestly, at least that I saw, still had tons of money in the bank." Shetold him about her investigation in general terms."You said one of them worked for Charles Highsmith, right?  So it's asif you've got your titans here, and then the guys who work for them,their trusted lieutenants and whatnot.  And back in 1945 or so, AlienDulles is running clearances on them, because they're all playingtogether, and Dulles doesn't like to be surprised by his playmates.""Which still leaves the larger question unanswered.  What's the game?Why was Sigma formed in the first place?  For what?""Maybe the explanation is simple," Ben said.  "Bunch of moguls gottogether in 1944, '45, to siphon off a huge amount of money from theThird Reich.  They divided up the spoils and got even richer.  The wayguys like that think, they probably told themselves they were reclaimingwhat was properly theirs."She seemed perplexed.  "O.K."  but here's what doesn't fit.  You've gotpeople who, right up until their deaths just days ago, were receivingregular, large payments.  Wire transfers into their bank accounts, inamounts ranging from a quarter-million to a half-million bucks.""Wired from where?""Laundered.  We don't know where the money originated; we only know thevery last links in the chains places like the Cayman Islands, Turks andCaicos.""Haven countries," Ben said."Exactly.  Beyond that, it's impossible to get any information.""Not necessarily," Ben said.  "Depends on who you know.  And whetheryou're willing to bend the law a little.  Grease some palms.""We don't bend the law."  Agent Navarro said this with an almost haughtypride."That's why you don't know shit about where the money came from."She looked startled, as if he'd slapped her face.  Then she laughed."What do you know about laundering money?""I don't do it myself, if that's what you're thinking, but my companydoes have an offshore division that manages funds to avoid taxes,government regulations, all that good stuff.  Also, I've had clients whoare very good at hiding their assets from people like you.  I knowpeople who can get information out of offshore banks.  They specializein it.  Charge a fortune.  They can dig up financial informationanywhere in the world, all through their personal contacts, knowing whoto pay off."After a few seconds, she said, "How would you feel about working with meon this?  Informally, of course."Surprised, Ben asked, "What does that mean, exactly?""Share information.  We have an overlap of motivations.  You want toknow who killed your brother and why.  I want to know who's been killingthe old men."Is she on the level?  he wondered.  Was this some kind of trick?  Whatdid she really want?"You think the murderers are one and the same?  My brother and these menon that list of yours?""I'm convinced of it now.  All part of the same pattern, the samemosaic.""What's in it for me?"  He looked at her boldly but softened it with agrin."Nothing official, let me tell you that right up front.  Maybe a littleprotection.  Put it this way they've already tried to kill you more thanonce.  How long is your luck going to hold?""And if I stick close to you, I'm safe?""Safer, maybe.  You got a better idea?  You did come to my hotel, afterall.  Anyway, the cops took your gun, right?"True.  "I'm sure you understand my reluctance after all, until veryrecently you wanted me in prison.""Look, feel free to go back to your hotel.  Have a good night's sleep.""Point taken.  You're making a generous offer.  Maybe one I'd be foolishto turn down.  I I don't know.""Well, sleep on it.""Speaking of sleep "Her eyes searched the room.  "I ""I'll call down to the front desk and get myself a room.""I doubt you'll get one.  There's some conference here, and they'rebooked to capacity.  I got one of the last rooms available.  Why don'tyou sleep on the couch?"He gave her a quick look.  Did the uptight Special Agent Navarro justinvite him to spend the night in her room?  No.  He was deludinghimself.  Her body language, the unspoken signals, made it clear: she'dinvited him here to hide out, not to slip into her bed."Thanks," he said."Just one thing: the couch is a little small, maybe a bit too short.""I've slept on worse, believe me."She got up, went to a closet, and found a blanket, handed it to him. "Ican ask room service to bring up a toothbrush.  In the morning we'regoing to have to retrieve your clothes, your luggage, from your hotel.""I don't plan to go back.""Definitely not a good idea.  I'll make arrangements."  She seemed torealize that she was standing a little too close, and she took a stepbackward, the gesture awkward.  "Well, I'm going to turn in," she said.He thought of something suddenly, an idea that had been teasing at theback of his mind since leaving Lenz's villa.  "The old Nazi hunter JakobSonnenfeld lives in this town, doesn't he?"She turned toward him.  "That sounds right.""I read somewhere recently he may be ancient but he's as sharp as ever.Plus, he's supposed to have extensive files.  I wonder...""You think he'll see you?""I think it's worth a try.""Well, be careful if you do go.  Take some security precautions.  Don'tlet anyone follow you there.  For his sake.""Hey, I'll take any advice on that you want to give me."While she got ready for bed, he called Bedford on his digital phone.Mrs.  Walsh answered.  She sounded agitated.  "No, Benjamin, I haven'theard a word.  Not a word!  He seems to have vanished without a trace.I've well, I've brought the police in on this.  I'm at my wits' end!"Ben felt a dull headache starting: the tension, which for a while hadabated, had returned.  Rattled, he mumbled a few empty words ofreassurance, disconnected the call, took off his jacket, and hung it onthe back of the desk chair.  Then, still dressed in his slacks andshirt, he settled onto the sofa and pulled the blanket over him.What did this mean, his father's disappearing without leaving a word? Hehad voluntarily gotten into a limousine; it wasn't a kidnapping.Presumably he knew where he was going.Which was where?He struggled to get comfortable on the couch, but Navarro was right, itwas just an inch or two too short for comfort.  He saw her sitting up inbed reading a file by the light of the bed lamp.  Her soft brown eyeswere caught by the pool of light."Was that about your father?"  she asked.  "I'm sorry, I know Ishouldn't have been eavesdropping, but--""It's O.K. Yeah, my father vanished a few days ago.  Got in a limousineto the airport and was never heard from again."She put down the file, sat up straight.  "That's a possible kidnapping.Which makes it federal business."He swallowed, his mouth dry.  Could he really have been abducted?"Tell me what you know," she said.The phone jangled some hours later, awakening them both.Anna picked it up.  "Yes?""Anna Navarro?""Yes, who's this?""Anna, I'm Phil Ostrow, from the American embassy here.  I hope I'm notcalling you too late."  A flat Midwestern American accent with Chicagoanvowels."I had to get up to answer the phone anyway," she said dryly.  "What canI do for you?"  What State Department hack called at midnight?"I--well, Jack Hampton suggested I call."  He paused significantly.Hampton was an operations manager for the CIA, and someone who had doneAnna more than one assist on a previous assignment.  A good man, asstraightforward as you could be in an oblique business.  She recalledBartlett's words about the "crooked timber of humanity."  But Hamptonwasn't built that way."I have some information about the case you're working.""What's your-Who are you, if you don't mind my asking?""I'd rather not get into all that over the phone.  I'm a colleague oflack's."She knew what that meant: CIA.  Hence the Hampton connection.  "What'syour information, or would you rather not get into that either?""Let's just say it's important.  Can you come by the office tomorrowmorning, first thing?  Seven too early for you?"  What could it be thatwas so urgent?  she wondered."You guys do start early, don't you?  Yeah, I guess I can.""All right tomorrow morning, then.  You been to the office before?""Embassy?""Across the street from the consular section."He gave her directions.  She hung up, puzzled.  From across the room Bensaid, "Everything O.K.?""Yeah," she said unconvincingly.  "Everything's fine.""We can't stay here, you know.""Correct.  Tomorrow we should both move.""You seem worried, Agent Navarro.""I'm always worried," she said.  "I live my life worried.  And call meAnna.""I never used to worry much," he said.  "Good night, Anna."CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.It was the sound of a blow-dryer that awakened Ben; after a few groggymoments, he realized that he was in a hotel room in Vienna, and that hisback ached from a night on the couch.He craned his neck forward, heard the satisfying crack of vertebrae,felt some welcome relief from the stiffness.The bathroom door opened and light flooded half the room.  Anna Navarrowas dressed in a tweedy brown suit, a little dowdy but not unbecoming,and her face was made up."I'll be back in an hour or so," she said crisply.  "Go back to sleep."Directly across the street from the consular section of the U.S.embassy, just as Ostrow had described, was a drab modern officebuilding.  The placard in the lobby listed a number of U.S. and Austrianbusiness offices, and on the eleventh floor, sure enough, the Office ofthe United States Trade Representative--the cover for the Vienna officeof the CIA, Such feelers from agencies she was investigating were farfrom unusual; they'd sometimes resulted in her best leads.Anna entered an unremarkable reception area, where a young woman sat ata government-issue desk, beneath the Great Seal of the United States,answering the phone and typing at a computer keyboard.  She didn't lookup.  Anna introduced herself, and the receptionist pressed a button andannounced her.In less than a minute a man with the pallor of a bureaucratic liferbustled out.  His cheeks were acne-scarred and sunken, his hair grayingauburn.  His eyes were small and gray behind large wire-rimmed glasses."Miss Navarro?"  he said, thrusting out a hand.  "I'm Phil Ostrow."The receptionist buzzed them through the door from which he hadappeared, and Ostrow guided her to a small conference room where aslender, darkly handsome man was sitting at a fake-wood-grain Formicatopped table.  He had bristling, brush cut black hair salted with gray,brown eyes, long black lashes.  Late thirties, maybe, Middle Eastern.Ostrow and Anna sat on either side of him."Yossi, this is Anna Navarro.  Anna, Yossi."Yossi's face was tanned, the lines around his eyes deeply etched,whether from squinting in the sun or from a life of great stress.  Hischin was square and cleft.  There was something almost pretty about hisface, though it was masculinized by his weathered skin and a day-oldgrowth of beard."Good to meet you, Yossi," she said.She nodded warily, unsmiling; he did the same.  He did not offer hishand."Yossi's a case officer you don't mind my telling her that much, do you,Yossi?"  said Ostrow.  "He works under deep commercial cover here inVienna.  A good setup.  He emigrated to the States from Israel when hewas in his late teens.  Now everyone assumes he's an Israeli which meansevery time he gets into trouble, someone else gets the blame." Ostrowchuckled."Ostrow, enough no more," Yossi said.  He spoke in a gruff baritone, hisEnglish accented with guttural Hebrew R's.  "Now, we should understandeach other: a number of men all around the world have been found dead inthe last few weeks.  You are investigating these deaths. You know theseare murders, but you do not know who is behind them."Anna gazed at him dully."You interrogated Benjamin Hartman at the Sicherheitsburo.  And you'vebeen in close contact with him since.  Yes?""Where are you going with this?"Ostrow spoke.  "We're making an official interagency request that youremand Hartman to our custody.""What the hell... ?""You're over your head here, Officer."  Ostrow returned her gazelevelly."I'm not following you.""Hartman's a security risk.  A two-woman man, O.K.?"Anna recognized the agency slang it referred to double agents, Americanassets who had been recruited by hostile parties.  "I don't understand.Are you saying that Hartman's one of yours?"  That was madness.  Or wasit?  It would explain how he was able to travel through Europeancountries without alerting passport control, among other things that hadpuzzled her.  And wouldn't his cover as an international financier lenditself to all sorts of agency work?  The named scion of a well-knownfinancial outfit no concocted legend could ever be as versatile and aspersuasive.Yossi and Ostrow exchanged glances.  "Not one of ours, exactly.""No?  Then whose?""Our theory is that he's been on retainer from someone in our outfitwho's been freelancing, let's say.  We could be talking false-flagrecruitment.""You bring me here and talk to me about theories?""We need him back on American soil.  Please, Agent Navarro.  You reallydon't know who you're dealing with here.""I'm dealing with someone who's confused about a number of things.  Andwho's still in shock from the death of his twin brother killed, hebelieves.""We know all about it.  Hasn't it occurred to you that he may havekilled him, too?""You're joking."  The imputation was incredible, and terrible; could itbe true?"What do you really know about Benjamin Hartman?"  Ostrow demandedtestily.  "I'll ask another question.  What do you know about how yourlist of targets started to make the rounds?  Information doesn't want tobe free, Agent Navarro.  Information wants to command top dollar, andsomeone like Benjamin Hartman has the wherewithal to pay it."Grease some palms: Hartman's words."But why?  What's his agenda?""We're never going to find out so long as he's cavorting around Europe,are we?"  Ostrow paused.  "Yossi hears things from his formercompatriots.  Mossad has caseworkers in this town, too.  There's apossible connection with your victims.""A splinter group?"  she asked.  "Or are you talking about the Kidon?"She meant the assassination unit of Mossad."No.  It is nothing official.  It is private business.""Involving Mossad agents?""And some freelancers they hire.""But these murders aren't Mossad signature killings.""Please," Yossi said, his face creasing with distaste.  "Don't be naive.You think my brethren all the time are leaving their business cards?When they want to be credited, sure.  Come on!""So then they don't want to be credited.""Of course not.  Is too sensitive.  Potentially can be explosive in thecurrent climate.  Israel doesn't want to be connected.""So who are they working for?"Yossi glanced at Ostrow, then back at Anna.  He shrugged."Not for Mossad, is that what you're saying?""For Mossad to order assassinations, this is very formalized thing.There is whole internal system, 'execution list," that the PrimeMinister must sign off on.  He must initial each name on the list, or itmust not be carried out.  People in Mossad and Shin Bet have been forcedout for ordering killings without approval from top.  That is why I tellyou this is not authorized sanctions.""So I ask you again: Who are they working for?"Again Yossi looked at Ostrow, but this time his glance seemed to be aprompt, a nudge."You didn't hear this from me," Ostrow said.She felt gooseflesh.  Thunderstruck, she whispered, "You're kidding me.""See, the Agency would never dirty its own hands," Ostrow said.  "Notanymore.  In the good old days, we wouldn't hesitate to rub out sometin-pot dictator if he looked at us the wrong way.  Now we gotpresidential directives and congressional oversight committees and CIAdirectors whose balls have been lopped off.  Christ, we're afraid togive a foreign citizen a head cold."There was a knock on the door.  A young man stuck his head in. "Langleyon three, Phil," he said."Tell 'em I didn't get in yet."  The door closed, and Ostrow rolled hiseyes."Let me get this straight," Anna said, addressing Ostrow.  "You guyspassed intelligence on to some Mossad freelancers?""Someone did.  That's all I know.  The rumor is that Ben Hartman servedas a go-between.""You got hard evidence?""Yossi's come up with some suggestive details," Ostrow said quietly. "Hedescribed enough of the 'watermarks," the 'sanitation' procedures, theinteroffice markings, to tell me this came directly from CIA.  I'mtalking about shit that can't be made up, marks and glyphs that arerotated daily."Anna could put two and two together: Yossi himself had to have been anAmerican penetration agent, a deep-cover asset, spying on Mossad for theCIA.  She considered asking about it directly, but decided it would be abreach of professional etiquette.  "Who at Langley?"  she asked."I told you, I don't know.""You don't know, or you won't tell me?"Yossi, a spectator at a bullfight, smiled for the first time.  His smilewas dazzling."You don't know me," Ostrow said, "but anyone who does knows I'm an avidenough bureaucratic game player to want to screw someone there I don'tlike.  If I had the name, I'd hand it to you just to burn the guy."That she believed: that would be the natural response of an Agencyinfighter.  But she was determined not to let him see that she waspersuaded.  "What's the motivation here?  Are you talking about fanaticsin the CIA?"He shook his head.  "I'm afraid I don't know anyone there who has strongfeelings about anything except vacation policy.""Then why?  What possible motivation?""My guess?  Let me tell you something."  Ostrow took off his glasses,cleaned the lenses on his shirt.  "You've got a list of crooks andcapitalists, small fry working for big fry.  When it comes to CIA andthe Nazis, right after the war, that's where some serious skeletons areburied.  My theory?  Someone highly placed, and I do mean highly placed,saw that some names from a long time ago were about to get out.""What does that mean?"He put the glasses back on.  "Names of old guys we used, paid off. Guyswho'd mostly disappeared into the mists of history, O.K.? Suddenly alist comes out, and guess what?  The names of some of the old-timers inthe Agency who aided and abetted this shit are gonna come out, too.Maybe some financial shenanigans, some double-dipping into the old well.The old geezers sure as hell are gonna squeal like pigs, rat out theirhandlers.  So who've you gonna call?  Who else but some fanaticalIsraelis.  Neat and clean.  Talk about ghosts left over from the SecondWorld War, do some hand-waving about inexplicable vengeance killings,save Old Boy asses--everybody's happy."Yeah, she thought grimly.  Everybody's happy."Listen to me.  There's a convergence of interests here.  You're tryingto figure out a string of homicides.  We're trying to figure out astring of security breaches.  But we can't chase this thing down withoutBen Hart man.  I'm not going to dump a load of supposition on you.There's a good chance that he's being hunted by the same people he worksfor. Mop-ups never end--that's the problem with them."Mopping up: Was that what she herself was doing?Ostrow seemed to respond to the hesitant look on her face.  "We justneed to know what's true and what isn't.""You've got paperwork?"  Anna asked.Ostrow tapped a stapled document with a blunt finger.  A capitalizedsection heading stood out: custodial conveyance of an american citizen."Yes, I've got the paperwork.  Now all I need's the body.  Jack Hamptonsaid you'd understand about these things.""What do you have in mind for the delivery?""Look, there are delicate issues of extra territoriality here ...""Meaning you don't want me to bring him here.""You got that right.  We will make house calls, though.  You can cuffhim, give us the signal, and we'll show up with bells on.  If you wantto keep your hands completely clean, that's fine, too.  Give us a timeand location, preferably someplace semi secluded and ...""And we'll handle the rest."  Yossi was somber once more."Christ, you guys really are cowboys, aren't you?"  Anna said."Cowboys who ride Aeron chairs, for the most part," Ostrow repliedwryly.  "But, sure, we can still manage an exfiltration when we have to.Nobody gets hurt.  It's a clean snatch-and grab--surgical.""Surgery hurts.""Don't over think it.  It's the right thing to do.  And it means we allget our jobs done.""I'll take it under advisement," Anna said, grimacing."Then take this under advisement, too."  Ostrow took out a sheet ofpaper with departure times of nonstop flights from Vienna to DullesInternational Airport in Washington, and to Kennedy Airport in New York."Time is of the essence."In a dark second-floor office on Wallnerstrasse, the portlyBerufsdetektiv Hans Hoffman slammed down the telephone and cursed aloud.It was ten in the morning and he had already called the American fourtimes at his hotel, with no luck.  The message he'd left the nightbefore had gone unanswered, too.  The hotel had no other telephonenumber for Hartman and would not divulge whether or not he'd even spentthe night at the hotel.The private investigator needed to reach Hartman at once.It was urgent.  He had steered the American wrong, given him a dangerouslead, and whatever else people might say about Hans Hoffman, no onedenied that he was a scrupulous man.  It was vitally important that hereach Hartman before he went to see Jorgen Lenz.For what the detective had discovered late yesterday afternoon wasnothing less than sensational.  The routine inquiries he had put outconcerning Jorgen Lenz had come back with the most unexpected, the mostastonishing answers.Hofrman knew that Dr.  Lenz no longer practiced medicine, but he wantedto know why.  To that end he had requested a copy of Lenz's medicallicense from the Arztekammer, the archives where the licenses of alldoctors in Austria are kept.There was no medical license for a Jorgen Lenz.There had never been one.Hoffman had wondered: How can this possibly be?  Was Lenz lying?  Had henever practiced medicine?Lenz's official biography, freely handed out at the Lenz Foundationoffices, had him graduating from medical school at Innsbruck, so Hoffmanchecked there.Jtirgen Lenz had never gone to medical school at Innsbruck.Driven now by an insatiable curiosity, Hoffman had gone to theUniversitat Wien, where the records of medical licensing examinationsfor all physicians in Austria are kept.Nothing.Hans Hoffman had furnished his client with the name and address of a manwhose biography was faked.  Something was very, very wrong.Hoffman had pored over his notes, stored in his laptop computer, tryingto make sense of it, attempting to assemble the facts in some other way.Now he stared at the screen again, scrolling down the list of records hehad checked, trying to think of some omission that might explain thisstrange situation.A loud flat buzz jolted him.  Someone was calling up to his office fromthe street.  He got up and went over to the intercom mounted on thewall."Yes?""I'm looking for Mr.  Hoffman.""Yes?""My name is Leitner.  I don't have an appointment, but I have someimportant business to discuss.""What sort of business?"  Hoffman asked.  Not a salesman, he hoped."Some confidential work.  I need his help.""Come on up.  Second floor."  Hoffman pressed the button thatelectronically unlocked the building's front door.He saved the Lenz file, shut off his laptop, and opened his office door.A man in a black leather jacket, with steel-gray hair, a goatee, and astud earring in his left ear, said, "Mr.  Hoffman?""Yes?"  Hoffman sized him up, as he did all potential clients,attempting to assess how much money the fellow might have to spend. Theman's face was smooth, unlined, almost tight around his high cheekbones.Despite the steel-gray hair, he was probably no older than forty.Physically an impressive specimen, but the features were unremarkable,undistinguishable, except for the dead gray eyes.  A serious man."Come on in," Hoffman said cordially.  "Tell me, what can I do for you?"It was only nine in the morning when Anna returned to the hotel.As she inserted the electronic key-card into the slot above thedoorknob, she could hear the sound of water running.  She enteredswiftly, hanging up her coat in the closet by the door, and made her wayinto the bedroom.  An important decision lay ahead of her: she wouldhave to rely upon her intuitions, she knew.Presently, there was the sound of the shower being turned off, and Benappeared in the doorway of the bathroom, evidently unaware that she hadreturned.He was still dripping water, a towel draped loosely around his midriff.His body was chiseled, heavily muscled in a way that once suggestedmanual labor and now, she knew, suggested privilege--a personal trainer,an active sports life.  With a clinical eye, she surveyed the evidenceof his physical regimen--the washboard stomach, the pectorals like twinshields, the swelling biceps.  Water beaded on his tan skin. He'dremoved the dressing from his shoulder, where a small, angry red patchwas visible."You're back," he said, finally taking in her presence.  "What's new?""Here, let me take a look at the shoulder," she said, and he walkedtoward her.  Was her interest in him purely professional?  Something inthe pit of her stomach made her wonder."It's pretty much healed," she pronounced.  She ran a finger around theperimeter of the reddened area.  "You don't really need the dressinganymore.  A thin layer of Bacitracin, maybe.  I've got a first-aid kitin my luggage."She went to retrieve it.  When she returned, he was wearing boxershorts, and had toweled himself off, but was still shirtless."Yesterday you were saying something about the CIA," she said as shefumbled with the tube of ointment."Maybe I'm wrong about them, I don't know anymore," he said.  "Lenz hadhis suspicions.  But I can't really bring myself to believe it."Could he be lying?  Had he been deceiving her last night?  It seemedincredible.  It defied every instinct, every intuition she possessed.She could detect no bravado, no tension in his voice none of the usualsignals of deception.As she rubbed the antiseptic ointment on his shoulder, their faces wereclose.  She smelled the soap, and the green-apple fragrance of the hotelshampoo, and something more, something faintly loamy, which was the manhimself.  She inhaled quietly, deeply.  And then, abruptly beset by astorm of emotions, she moved away.Was her radar, her assessment of his honesty, being distorted by otherfeelings?  That wasn't something she could afford in her position,especially under the current circumstances.On the other hand, what if the CIA officers had been misinformed?  Whowere their sources, anyway?  A caseworker was only as good as hisassets.  She knew as well as anyone how fallible the system could be.And if there were CIA involvement, would it be safe to remand him tothat agency?  There was too much uncertainty in her world: she had totrust her instincts, or she was lost.Now she dialed Walter Heisler.  "I need to ask you a favor," she said."I called Hartman's hotel.  He seems to have left without checking out.There was some sort of shootout.  Evidently he's left his luggage there.I want to go through it, really take my time with it.""Well, you know, that's actually our property, once an investigation isstarted.""Have you started one?""No, not yet, but--""Then could you please do me a huge favor and have the luggage shippedover to me, at my hotel?""Well, I suppose this can be arranged," Heisler said sullenly.  "Thoughit is ... rather unorthodox.""Thanks, Walter," she said warmly, and hung up.Ben wandered over to her, still wearing nothing but boxer shorts. "Now,that's what I call full service," he said, grinning.She tossed him an undershirt.  "It's a little chilly outside," she said,her throat dry.Ben Hartman walked out of the hotel, glancing around nervously. Showeredand shaved, even though he was wearing the same now-rumpled clothes he'dslept in, he felt decently crisp.  He took in the broad, heavilytrafficked avenue and beyond, the green of the Stadtpark, feelingexposed, vulnerable, then he turned right and headed toward the firstdistrict.He had spent the last half hour making telephone calls, one afteranother.  First he had awakened a contact, a friend of a friend, in theCayman Islands, who operated a two-man "investigative" service thatsupposedly did background checks for multinational corporations onpotential hires.  In reality, the firm was most often engaged by wealthyindividuals or multinationals who once in a while had a reason topenetrate the secrecy of the banks down there.O'Connor Security Investigations was the highly secretive enterprise ofan Irish expatriate and former constabulary officer named FergusO'Connor, who had first come to the Caymans as a security guard for aBritish bank there and stayed.  He'd become a security officer, thenchief of security.  When he realized that his web of contacts and hisexpertise were marketable--he knew all the other chiefs of security,knew who could be paid off and who couldn't, knew how the system reallyoperated-he'd gone into business for himself."This better be bloody important," Fergus had growled into the phone."I don't know about that," Ben replied.  "But it will be awfullylucrative.""Now we're talkin'," Fergus said, mollified.Ben read a list of routing codes and wire-transfer numbers to him, andsaid he'd call back at the end of the day."It'll take me a hell of a lot longer than that," Fergus objected."Even if we double your usual fee?  Does that speed things up?""Bloody well right it does."  There was a pause.  "By the way, you doknow that they're saying the most appalling things about you, don'tyou?""What do you mean?""A whole load of bollocks.  You know how the rumor mill goes.  They sayyou've gone off on some murderous rampage.""You're kidding.""They say you killed your own brother."Ben didn't respond, but felt sick.  Was there not a sense in which itwas true?"Just crazy stuff like that.  Not my specialty, but I know a thing ortwo about how people spread rumors in the financial world, just to stirthings up.  A load of bollocks, as I say.  Still, it's interesting thatsomeone's decided to put it out."Jesus.  "Thanks for the heads-up, Fergus," Ben said, sounding wobblierthan he would have liked.He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and placed a second call,to a young woman in the New York office of a different sort ofinvestigative firm.  This company was large, international, legitimate,staffed with ex-FBI agents and even a few ex-CIA officers.  KnappIncorporated specialized in helping corporations conduct "due diligence"on potential business partners and solving white-collar crime,embezzlements, inside thefts a gumshoe agency on a global scale. Fromtime to time it was hired by Hartman Capital Management.One of Knapp's star investigators was Megan Crosby, a Harvard Law gradwho did corporate background checks like no one else.  She had anuncanny knack for rooting out and then untangling Byzantine, heavilycloaked corporate structures designed to escape the scrutiny ofregulators, wary investors, or competitors, and was as good as anyone atflushing out who really owned whom, who was behind what shell company.How she did it she never divulged to her clients.  A magician must notdivulge his tricks.  Ben had taken Megan out to lunch a number of timesand, since he sometimes had occasion to call her from Europe, she hadgiven him her home phone number."It's three in the morning, who's calling?"  was how she answered thephone."Ben Hartman, Megan.  Forgive me, it's important."Megan was instantly alert for her lucrative client.  "No problem.  Whatcan I do for you?""I'm in the middle of a big-deal meeting in Amsterdam," he explained,lowering his voice.  "There's a small biotech firm in Philadelphiacalled Vortex Laboratories I'm intrigued by."  Anna, wanting his help,had mentioned Vortex to him.  "I want to know who owns them, who theymight have quiet partnerships with, that kind of thing.""I'll do what I can," she said, "but no promises.""End of the day possible?""Jesus."  She paused.  "End of which day are we talking?  Yours or mine?That extra six hours will make a difference.""Then make it the end of your day.  Do what you can.""Got it," she said."One more thing.  There's a guy named Oscar Peyaud, based in Paris, thatHCM has used for French due-diligence.  Knapp has him on retainer. Ineed direct contact info for him."By ten o'clock the Graben, one of Vienna's great pedestrianthoroughfares, was bustling with window-shoppers, business people,tourists.  He turned onto Kohlmarkt and passed Cafe Demel, the renownedpastry shop, where he turned to look at the lavish display windows.  Inits reflection, he noticed someone glancing at him and then quicklylooking away.A tall, thuggish-looking man in an ill-fitting dark blue raincoat.  Hehad a thatch of unruly salt-and-pepper black hair, a ruddy face, and theheaviest eyebrows Ben had ever seen, a veritable wheat field of browalmost an inch thick, mostly black but salted with a little gray. Theman's cheeks were covered with gin blossoms, the spiderwebs of brokencapillaries that come from heavy drinking.Ben knew he had seen the man before.  He was convinced of it.Somewhere, some time in the last day or two he had seen this sameruddy-cheeked man with the wheat-field eyebrows.  In a crowd somewhere,but where?Or had he?Was paranoia overcoming him?  Was he seeing faces, imagining that hisenemies were everywhere?Ben turned to look again, but the man had disappeared."My dear Ms.  Navarro," Alan Harriett said.  "I wonder if we havedifferent conceptions of what the fulfillment of your brief consists of.I must say I'm disappointed.  You created high expectations."Anna had placed a call to Robert Polozzi, of ID Section, only to beswitched over, with no warning, to Bartlett."Listen," she protested, phone handset vised between her neck and leftshoulder, "I think I'm on the verge--"Bartlett talked over her words.  "You are supposed to check in on aregular basis, Agent Navarro.  And not disappear like a college studenton spring break.""If you'll listen to what I've turned up--" Anna began, exasperated."No, you listen to me, Agent Navarro.  Your instructions are to wrapthis matter up, and that's what you are going to do.  We've learned thatRamago has already been taken out.  Rossignol was our last, best chance.I can't speak to what means you used to reach him, but it quite clearlyresulted in his death.  Apparently I was misled as to your sense ofdiscretion."  Bartlett's voice was an icicle."But the Sigma list--""You spoke to me of surveillance and preemption with respect to thissubject.  You did not alert me that you meant to draw a large bull's-eyeon him.  How many times did I emphasize the delicacy of your charge? Howmany times?"Anna felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach.  "I apologize ifanything that I did had the effect of--""No, Agent Navarro, I blame myself.  It was I who made the assignment. Icannot say I wasn't counseled against it.  It was my own mulishness, yousee.  Trusting you with this assignment was my mistake.  I take fullresponsibility.""Cut the crap," Anna said, suddenly fed up.  "You don't have the data tosupport your accusations.""You're already facing administrative charges.  I expect you in myoffice no later than five o'clock tomorrow afternoon, and I don't careif you have to charter a private jet to get here."It was a few seconds before Anna realized he had hung up.  Her heartpounded; her face was flushed.  Had he not ended the call when he did,she'd have gone off on him, and no doubt finished her career once andfor all.No, she told herself, you've already done that.  It's over.  Dupree,when he got wind that she'd run afoul of the Internal Compliance Unit,would revoke her privileges within five minutes.Well, at least go oat with a bang.She felt a delicious sense of inevitability.  It was like being on aspeeding train you couldn't get off.  Enjoy the rush.CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.The office of the legendary and world-famous Jakob Sonnenfeld--the Nazihunter extraordinaire who had been on the cover of countless newsmagazines the subject of innumerable profiles and documentaries, hadeven made cameo appearances in movies--was located in a small, gloomy,relatively modern building on Salztorgasse, an inelegant street ofdiscount stores and glum cafes.  Sonnenfeld's phone number had simplybeen listed in the Vienna telephone directory without an address; Benhad called the number at around eight-thirty that morning and wassurprised when it was answered.  A brusque woman asked what his businesswas, why he wanted to see the great man.Ben told her that he was the son of a Holocaust survivor and was inVienna doing some personal research into the Nazi regime.  Stick to whatyou know was his principle here.  He was further surprised when thewoman agreed to his request to meet the legend that morning.The night before, Anna Navarro had suggested a few of what she called"evasive measures," to lose anyone who might be following.  On hiscircuitous way here, after seeing the ruddy-faced man with thewheat-field eyebrows, he had doubled back a few times, abruptly crossedthe street, suddenly turned into a bookstore, and browsed and waited. Heseemed to have lost the tail, or perhaps, for some reason, the manhadn't wanted to be spotted again.Now, having reached Sonnenfeld's office building on Salztorgasse, he wasbuzzed in and took the elevator to the fourth floor, where a solitaryguard waved him along.  The door was opened by a young woman who pointedhim to an uncomfortable chair in a hallway lined with plaques and awardsand testaments in Sonnenfeld's honor.While he waited, he took out his digital phone and left a message forOscar Peyaud, the Paris-based investigator.  Then he called the hotel hehad so unceremoniously abandoned the night before."Yes, Mr.  Simon," the hotel operator answered with what struck him asundue familiarity.  "Yes, sir, there is a message for you it is, if youwill wait, yes, from a Mr.  Hans Hoffman.  He says it is urgent.""Thank you," Ben said."Please, Mr.  Simon, can you hold on, please.  The manager has justsignaled me that he would like to speak with you."The hotel manager got on the line.  Ben ignored his first instinct,which was to disconnect immediately; more important by far was todetermine how much the hotel management knew, how comp licit they mightbe."Mr.  Simon," the manager said in a loud and authoritative basso profundo "one of our chambermaids tells me that you threatened her, andmoreover, there was an incident here last night involving gunfire, andthe police wish you to return here immediately for questioning."Ben pressed the End button.It was not surprising that the manager would want to talk to him. Damagehad been done to the hotel; the manager was duty-bound to call thepolice.  But there was something about the man's voice, the suddenlybullying self-assurance of a man who is backed by the full weight of theauthorities, that alarmed Ben.And what did Hoffman, the private investigator, want so urgently?The door to Sonnenfeld's office opened and a small, stoop-shouldered oldman emerged and gestured feebly for Ben to enter.  He gave Ben atremorous handshake and sat behind a cluttered desk.  Jakob Sonnenfeldhad a bristly gray mustache, a jowly face, large ears, and red-rimmed,hooded, watery eyes.  He wore an unfashionably wide, clumsily knottedtie, a moth-eaten brown sweater-vest under a checked jacket."Many people want to look at my archives," Sonnenfeld said abruptly."Some for good reasons, some for not so good.  Why you?"Ben cleared his throat, but Sonnenfeld rumbled on.  "You say your fatheris a Holocaust survivor.  So?  There are thousands of them alive.  Whyare you so interested in my work?"Do I dare level with the man?  he wondered.  "You've been hunting Nazisfor decades now," he began suddenly.  "You must hate them with all yourheart, as I do."Sonnenfeld waved dismissively.  "No.  I'm not a hater.  I couldn't workat this job for over fifty years fueled by hate.  It would eat away atmy insides."Ben was at once skeptical and annoyed at Sonnenfeld's piety."Well, I happen to believe that war criminals should not go free.""Ah, but they are not war criminals really, are they?  A war criminalcommits his crimes to further his war aims, yes?  He murders andtortures in order to help win the war.  But tell me: Did the Nazis needto massacre and gas to death millions of innocents in order to win?  Ofcourse not.  They did it purely for ideological reasons.  To cleanse theplanet, they believed.  It was wholly unnecessary.  It was somethingthey did on the side.  It diverted precious wartime resources.  I'd saytheir campaign of genocide hindered their war effort.  No, these weremost certainly not war criminals.""What do you call them, then?"  Ben asked, understanding at last.Sonnenfeld smiled.  Several gold teeth glinted.  "Monsters."Ben took in a long breath.  He'd have to trust the old Nazi hunter; thatwas the only way, he realized, to secure his cooperation. Sonnenfeld wastoo smart.  "Then let me be very direct with you, Mr. Sonnenfeld.  Mybrother my twin brother, my closest friend in all the world was murderedby people I believe are in some way connected with some of thesemonsters."Sonnenfeld leaned forward.  "Now you have me very confused," he saidvery intently.  "Surely you and your brother are much, much too young tohave been through the war.""This happened not much over a week ago," Ben said.Sonnenfeld's brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in disbelief.  "What can yoube saying?  You are making no sense."Quickly Ben explained about Peter's discovery.  "This document drew mybrother's attention because one of the board members was our ownfather."  He paused.  "Max Hartman."Stunned silence.  Then: "I know the name.  He has given much money togood causes.""In the year 1945, one of his causes was something called Sigma," Bencontinued stonily.  "The other incorporators included many Westernindustrialists, and a small handful of Nazi officials.  Those includedthe treasurer, who is identified by the title Obersturmfrihrer, and bythe name Max Hartman."Sonnenfeld's rheumy eyes did not blink.  "Extraordinary.  You did say"Sigma," yes?  Dear God in heaven.""I'm afraid it's an old story," said the visitor in the black leatherjacket."The wife," suggested the private detective, Hoffman, with a wink.The man smiled sheepishly."She is young and very pretty, yes?"A sigh.  "Yes.""They are the worst of all, the pretty young ones," Hoffman said, man toman.  "I'd advise you to simply forget her.  You'll never be able totrust her anyway."The visitor's eye seemed to be caught by Hoffman's fancy new laptopcomputer.  "Nice," the man said."I don't know how I ever used anything else," Hoffman said.  "I am notso good with technical things, but this is easy.  Who needs filingcabinets anymore?  Everything is here.""Mind if I take a look at it?"Hoffman hesitated.  A man come in off the street--he could easily be athief after all.  He glanced at him again, took in the man's broadshoulders, narrow waist, not a gram of body fat.  Quietly he nudged openthe long metal desk drawer next to his lap an inch or two and checkedfor the Clock."Maybe another time," Hoffman said.  "All of my confidential files arethere.  So, please give me the details about your pretty young wife andthe bastard she's fucking.""Why don't you turn it on?"  the visitor said.  Hoffman looked upsharply.  This was not a request but a demand."Why are you here?"  Hoffman snarled, and then realized he was staringinto the barrel of a Makarov attached to a silencer."Put the computer on," the man said softly.  "Open your files.""I will tell you one thing.  This document was never meant to see thelight of day," Sonnenfeld said.  "It was a legalism intended forinternal Swiss bank use only.  For the gnomes of Zurich alone.""I don't understand.""Sigma has long been the stuff of legend.  Not a scintilla of evidencehas ever emerged to give body to the shadow of supposition.  I wouldknow.  Believe me.""Until now, correct?""So it would seem," he said softly.  "Clearly, it is a fictionalenterprise.A front, a ruse--a means for industrialists on both sides to secure aseparate peace, whatever the terms of armistice might be.  The paperyour brother uncovered may be the only material reality that it has.""You say it was the stuff of legend--what was the nature of thatlegend?""Powerful businessmen and powerful politicians, meeting secretly totransfer immense, stolen state assets out of the Fatherland.  Noteveryone who opposed Hitler was a hero, you might as well know that.Many were cold-eyed pragmatists.  They knew the war effort was doomed,and they knew who was to blame.  What concerned them more was theprospect of repatriation, nationalization.  They had their own empiresto look after.  Empires of industry.  There is abundant evidence of suchplans.  But we've always believed that the plan remained just a plan.And almost everyone involved has since gone to their graves.""You said 'almost everyone," " Ben repeated sharply.  "Let me ask aboutthe few board members who fall under your professional purview.  TheNazis.  Gerhard Lenz.  Josef Strasser."  He paused before pronouncingthe final name.  "Max Hartman."Sonnenfeld fell silent.  He cradled his head in his large craggy hands."Who are these people?"  he said to himself, the question purelyrhetorical.  "That is your question.  And here, always, is mine: who isasking?  Why do you want to know?""Put your gun down," Hoffman said.  "Don't be foolish.""Close the desk drawer," the intruder said.  "I am watching you veryclosely.  One wrong move and I will not hesitate to kill you.""Then you'll never access my files," Hoffman said triumphantly.  "Thecomputer is equipped with a biometric authentication device--afingerprint scanner.  Without my fingerprint, no one can log on.  So yousee, you would be very foolish to kill me.""Oh, I don't need to go quite that far yet," said the visitor serenely."But do you know the truth about my father?"  Ben asked.  "It strikes methat you might have assembled a file on such a high-profile survivorand--forgive me--potential benefactor to your efforts.  You, more thananyone, would have been in a position to see through his lies.  You haveall the lists of concentration-camp victims, a more exhaustivestorehouse of records than anyone else.  That's why I have to ask: Didyou know the truth about my father?""Do you?"  Sonnenfeld returned sharply."I've seen the truth in black and white.""You have seen in black and white, yes, but you have not seen the truth.An amateur's error.  Forgive me, Mr.  Hartman, but these are neverblack-and-white matters.  You're dealing with a situation whoseambiguities are very familiar to me.  Your father's case, I can tell youonly a little about it, but it is a sadly familiar story.  You must beprepared to enter a realm of moral chiaroscuro, however.  Of shadow, ofethical vagueness.  Begin with the simple fact that if a Jew had money,the Nazis were willing to deal with him.  This was one of the uglysecrets of the war that people seldom talk about.  Often enough, therich ones bought safe passage.  The Nazis would take gold, jewels,securities, whatever.  It was outright extortion, plain and simple. Theyeven had a price schedule three hundred thousand Swiss francs for alife!  One of the Rothschilds traded his steel mills for his freedomgave them to the Hermann Goering Works.  But you won't read about any ofthis.  No one ever talks about it.  There was a very richHungarian-Jewish family, Weiss they had businesses in twenty-threecountries around the world.  They gave their entire fortune to the SS,and in return they were escorted safely to Switzerland."Ben was flustered.  "But an Obersturmfuhrer...""A Jewish Obersturmfuhrer?  Can that possibly be?  Bear with me for amoment."  Sonnenfeld paused before resuming.  "I can tell you about anSS colonel, Kurt Becher, who was in charge of making deals like this forEichmann and Himmler.  Becher made a deal with a Hungarian, Dr. RudolfKastner seventeen hundred Jews at a thousand dollars each.  A wholetrain full.  Jews in Budapest fought to get on that train.  You knowyour family had money before the war, didn't you?  The way it worked wasvery simple, if you were Max Hartman.  One day Obergruppenfuhrer Bechercomes to see you.  You make a deal.  What good was your fortune if youwere all going to die anyway?  So you ransom your family out.  Yoursisters and you.  This was hardly a moral conundrum.  You did whateveryou could to stay alive."Ben had never thought of his father as a young man, frightened anddesperate.  His mind reeled.  His aunt Sarah had died before he wasborn, but he remembered his aunt Leah, who passed away when he was inhigh school: a small, quiet, gentle soul, who had lived quietly as alibrarian in Philadelphia.  The affection she had for her brother wasreal, but so, too, was her recognition of his strength of character; shedeferred to him in all things.  If there were secrets to be kept, shewould have kept them.But his father what else was he keeping inside?"If what you're saying is true, why did he never tell us?"  Ben asked."You think he wanted you to hear this?"  There was a hint of scorn inSonnenfeld's voice.  "You think you would really have understood?Millions incinerated, while Max Hartman comes to America simply becausehe was fortunate enough to have money?  People in his situation nevertold anyone, my friend.  They often did their best to try to forget itthemselves.  I know these things because it is my business to know, butthey are best left unexposed."Ben didn't know how to reply, said nothing."Even Churchill and Roosevelt Himmler made them an offer, you know.  InMay of '44.  He was prepared to sell the Allies every single Jew theNazis had, if the Allies would give them one truck for every hundredJews.  The Nazis would dismantle the gas chambers, stop murdering theJews at once all for some trucks they could use against the Russians.The Jews were for sale but there were no buyers!  Roosevelt andChurchill said no they wouldn't sell their souls to the devil.  Easy forthem to say, no?  They could have saved a million European Jews, but no.There were Jewish leaders who desperately wanted to make this deal.  Yousee, you want to talk about morality, this wasn't so simple, was it?"Sonnenfeld's tone was bitter.  "Now it's so easy to talk about cleanhands.  But the result is that you're here today.  You exist becauseyour father made an unsavory deal to save his own life."Ben's mind flashed back to the image of his father, old and frail inBedford, and the image of him, crisp and chiseled in the old photograph.What he had to go through to get here, Ben couldn't begin to imagine.Yet would he really feel compelled to hide this?  How much else had hebeen hiding?  "But still, this all leaves unanswered the matter of hisname on that document," Ben prompted, "identifying him asSS....""In name only, I'm sure.""Meaning what?""How much do you know about your father?"Good question, Ben thought.  He said, "Less and less, it seems."  MaxHartman, powerful and intimidating, conducting a board meeting withgladiatorial self-confidence.  Hoisting Ben, age six, way up in the air.Reading The Financial Times at breakfast, distant and elusive.How I tried to earn his love, his respect!  And what a warm glow hisapproval gave me when he so rarely granted it.What an enigma the man has always been."I can tell you this much," Sonnenfeld said impassively.  "When yourfather was still a young man, he was already a legend in Germanfinancial circles.  A genius, it was said.  But he was a Jew.  Early inthe war, when the Jews were being sent away, he was given theopportunity to work for the Reichsbank instead, designing intricatefinancial schemes that would allow the Nazis to circumvent the Alliedblockades.  He was given this SS title as a sort of cover.""So in a sense he helped finance the Nazi regime," Ben said in amonotone.  This was somehow no surprise, but still he felt his stomachplummet at hearing it confirmed."Unfortunately, yes.  I'm sure he had his reasons he was pressured, hehad no choice.  He would have been enlisted in this Sigma project as amatter of course."  He paused again, watching Ben steadily.  "I thinkyou are not very good at seeing shades of gray.""Odd talk for a Nazi hunter.""Again with that journalist's tag," Sonnenfeld said.  "I fight forjustice, and in the fight for justice you must be able to distinguishbetween the venial and the venal, between ordinary and outsizedwrongdoing.  Make no mistake: hardship brings out the best in no one."The room seemed to revolve slowly around him.  Ben clasped his armsaround himself, and breathed deeply, trying for a moment of calm, amoment of clarity.He had a sudden mental picture of his father in his study, listening toMozart's Don Giovanni as he sat in his favorite overstaffed chair indarkness.  Often in the evenings after dinner Max would sit alone withthe lights off, Don Giovanni on the stereo.  How lonely the man musthave been, how frightened that his ugly past would someday emerge.  Benwas surprised at the tenderness he suddenly felt.  The old man loved meas much as he was able to love anyone.  How can I despise him?  Itoccurred to Ben that the real reason Lenz grew to hate his own fatherwas not so much the repugnance of Nazism as the fact that he hadabandoned them."Tell me about Strasser," Ben said, realizing that only a change ofsubject could diminish the vertigo he was undergoing.Sonnenfeld closed his eyes.  "Strasser was a scientific adviser toHitler.  Gevalt, he was not a human being.  Strasser was a brilliantscientist.  He helped run I. G. Farben, you know this famous I. G.Farben, the big industrial firm that was controlled by the Nazis? There,he helped to invent a new gas in pellet form called Zyklon-B. You wouldshake the pellets and they would turn into gas.  Like magic! They firsttried it in the showers at Auschwitz.  A fantastic invention.  Thepoison gas would rise in the gas chambers, and as the level rose thetaller victims would step on the others to try to breathe.  But everyonewould die in four minutes."Sonnenfeld paused, gazed into some middle distance.  In the long silenceBen could hear the ticking of a mechanical clock."Very efficient," Sonnenfeld at last resumed.  "For this we must thankDr.  Strasser.  And do you know that Alien Dulles, your CIA director inthe fifties, was I. G. Farben's American lawyer and loyal defender? Yes,it is true."Somewhere Ben had heard this before, but it still amazed him.  Slowly,he said, "So both Strasser and Lenz were partners, in a sense.""Yes.  Two of the most brilliant, most terrible Nazi scientists.  Lenzwith his experiments on children, on twins.  A brilliant scientist, farahead of his time.  Lenz took a particular interest in the metabolism ofchildren.  Some he would starve to death in order to observe how theirgrowth slowed and stopped.  Some he would actually freeze, to see howthat affected their growth.  He saw to it that all the children whosuffered from progeria, a horrible form of premature aging, were sent tohim for study."  He went on bitterly: "A lovely man, Dr.  Lenz. Veryclose to the high command, of course.  As a scientist, he was bettertrusted than most politicians.  He was thought to have 'purity ofpurpose."  And of course our Dr.  Strasser.  Lenz went to Buenos Airestoo, as so many of them did after the war.  Have you been there? It is alovely city.  Truly.  The Paris of South America.  No wonder all theNazis wanted to live there.  And then Lenz died there.""And Strasser?""Perhaps Lenz's widow knows the whereabouts of Strasser, but don't eventhink of asking her.  She'll never reveal it.""Lenz's widow?"  Ben asked, sitting upright.  "Yes, Jurgen Lenzmentioned his mother had retired there.""You spoke with Jurgen Lenz?""Yes.  You know him, I gather?""Ah, this is a complicated story, Jurgen Lenz.  I must admit to you, atfirst I found it extremely difficult to accept money from this man.  Ofcourse, without contributions we would have to close down.  In thiscountry, where they have always protected the Nazis, even protect themto this day, I get no donations.  Not a cent!  Here they haven'tprosecuted a single Nazi case in over twenty years!  Here I was foryears Public Enemy Number One.  They used to spit at me on the street.And Lenz, well, from Lenz this so clearly seemed to be guilt money. Butthen I met the man, and I quickly changed my mind.  He's sincerelycommitted to doing good.  For example, he's the sole underwriter of theprogeria foundation in Vienna.  No doubt he wants to undo his father'swork.  We mustn't hold against him his father's crimes."Sonnenfeld's words resounded.  His father's crimes.  How bizarre thatLenz and I should be in a similar situation."The prophet Jeremiah, you know, he tells us, "They shall say no more,the fathers have eaten a sour grape, and the children's teeth are set onedge."  And Ezekiel says, "The son shall not bear the iniquity of thefather."  It is very clear."Ben was silent.  "You say Strasser may be alive.""Or he may be dead," Sonnenfeld replied quickly.  "Who knows about theseold men?  I've never been able to make certain.""You must have a file on him.""Don't speak to me of such things.  Are you in the grip of the fantasythat you will find this creature and he will tell you what you want,like some genie?"  Sonnenfeld sounded evasive.  "For years I have beendogged with young fanatics seeking vengeance, to slake some sense ofdisquiet with the blood of a certified villain.  It is a puerilepursuit, which ends badly for everyone.  You had persuaded me you werenot one of them.  But Argentina is another country, and surely thewretch is dead."The young woman who had answered the door when Ben arrived nowreappeared, and a murmured conversation ensued.  "An important telephonecall which I must take," Sonnenfeld said apologetically, and he withdrewto a back room.Ben looked around him, at the huge slate-colored filing cabinets.Sonnenfeld had been distinctly evasive when the subject came toStrasser's current whereabouts.  Was he holding out on him?  And if so,why?From Sonnenfeld's manner, he inferred that the telephone call wasexpected to be a long one.  Perhaps long enough to allow a quick searchof the files.  Impulsively, Ben moved to an immense, five-drawer filingcabinet marked R-S.  The drawers were locked but the key was on top ofthe cabinet: not exactly high security, Ben noted.  He opened the bottomdrawer, found it densely packed with yellowed file folders and crumblingpapers.  Stefans.  Sterngeld.  Streitfeld.strasser.  The name penned in brown faded ink.  He plucked it out, andthen had a sudden thought.  He went to the K-M file.  There was a thickfile for Gerhard Lenz, but that wasn't the one he was interested in. Itwas the thin file next to it the file for his widow that he wanted.This one was tightly wedged in.  He heard footsteps: Sonnenfeld wasreturning, more quickly than Ben had expected!  He tugged on the folder,worried it from side to side until it was slowly released from theothers.  Taking the trench coat he'd draped on an adjoining chair, hequickly shoved the yellowed folders under it and returned to his seatjust as Sonnenfeld entered."It's a dangerous thing to disturb the peace of old men," Sonnenfeldannounced as he rejoined him.  "Maybe you think they're toothless,wizened creatures.  Indeed they are.  But they have a powerful supportnetwork, even now.  Especially in South America, where they haveextensive loyalists.  Thugs, like the Kamaradenwerk.  They are protectedthe way wild animals protect their enfeebled elders.  They kill wheneverthey must they never hesitate.""In Buenos Aires?""There more than anywhere else.  Nowhere are they so powerful."  Helooked weary.  "This is why you must never go there and ask about theold Germans."Sonnenfeld got up unsteadily, and Ben rose, too.  "Even today, you see,I must have a security guard at all times.  It is not much, but it iswhat we can afford to pay for.""Yet you insist on living in a city where they don't like questionsabout the past," Ben said.Sonnenfeld put his hand on Ben's shoulder.  "Ah, well, you see, if youare studying malaria, Mr.  Hartman, you must live in the swamp, no?"Julian Bennett, assistant deputy of operations at the National SecurityAgency, sat facing Joel Skolnik, the deputy director of the Departmentof Justice in the small executive dining room in the NSA's Fort Meadheadquarters.  Though Skolnik, lanky and balding, held a higherbureaucratic rank, Bennett's manner was peremptory.  The NationalSecurity Agency was structured in such as way as to insulate people likeBennett from bureaucratic oversight outside of the agency. The effectwas to encourage a certain arrogance, and Bennett was not one todisguise it.An overdone lamb chop and a lump of steamed spinach, mostly uneaten, saton the plate in front of Skolnik.  His appetite had long sincedisappeared.  Past a thin veneer of amiability, Bennett's manner wassubtly hectoring, and his message frankly alarming."This doesn't look good for you," Bennett was telling him, not for thefirst time.  His small, wide-spaced eyes and light-colored eyebrows gavehim a vaguely porcine look."I realize this.""You're supposed to be running a tight ship here," Bennett said.  Hisown plate was clean; he had devoured his porterhouse in several swiftbites: plainly a man who ate simply for fuel.  "And the stuff we've beencoming across is pretty damn disquieting.""You've been clear about that," Skolnik said, hating the way it came outdeferential, even cowed.  He knew it was always a mistake to show fearto a man like Bennett.  It was like blood in the water to a shark."The recklessness about matters of national security your people haveshown it compromises us all.  I look at the way your staffers haveconducted themselves, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry.  What'sthe use of bolting the front door when the back door is swinging in thewind?""Let's not exaggerate the possible exposure at issue," Skolnik said.Even to himself, the starchy words sounded defensive."I want you to assure me that the rot is contained with the Navarrowoman."  Bennett leaned over and patted Skolnik's forearm in a gesturethat was half intimate and half menacing.  "And that you'll use allmeans at your disposal to bring the woman in.""That much goes without saying," the DOJ man said, swallowing hard."Now stand up," the goa teed man said, waving the Makarov in his lefthand."It'll do you no good, I won't put my finger on the sensor," said thedetective, Hans Hoffman.  "Now get out of here, before something happensthat you'll regret.""I never have regrets," the man said blandly.  "Stand up."Hoffman stood up reluctantly.  "I tell you "The intruder rose too and approached him."I tell you again," Hoffman said, "it will do you no good to kill me.""I don't need to kill you," the man said blandly.  In onelightning-swift movement he lunged.Hoffman saw the glint of something metallic even before he felt theunbelievable pain explode in his hand.  He looked down.  There was astump where his index finger had been.  The cut had been perfect.  Atthe base of where his finger had been, right next to the fatty part ofthe thumb, he could see a white circle of bone within a larger circle offlesh.  In the millisecond before he screamed, he saw the razor-sharphunting knife in the man's hand, and then he noticed with dazedfascination the dismembered finger lying on the carpet like a uselessdiscarded chicken part flung there by some careless butcher.He bellowed, a high-pitched scream of disbelief and terror andexcruciating, incomprehensible pain.  "Oh, my God!  Oh, my God!  Oh, myGod!"Trevor picked up the dismembered finger and held it aloft.  At thesevered end, blood still wept.CHAPTER THIRTY.Anna put in a call to David Denneen."Is that you, Anna?"  he said tersely, his customary warmth crimped byuncustomary wariness.  "The shit's flying.""Talk to me, David.  Tell me what the hell's going on.""Crazy stuff.  They're saying you're..."  His voice trailed off."What?""Crazy stuff.  You on a sterile line?""Of course."There was a pause.  "Listen, Anna.  The department's been ordered toplace a P-47 on you, Anna--full-out mail, wire, phone intercepts.""Jesus Christ!"  Anna said.  "I don't believe it.""It gets worse.  Since this morning, you've been a 12-44: apprehend onsight- Bring in by any means necessary.  Jesus, I don't know what you'vebeen up to, but you're being called a national security risk. They'resaying you've been accepting money from hostiles for years.  I shouldn'teven be talking to you.""What?""Word is the FBI's discovered all sorts of cash and jewelry in yourapartment.  Expensive clothes.  Offshore bank accounts.""Lies!"  Anna exploded.  "All goddamn lies."There was a long pause.  "I knew they had to be, Anna.  But I'm glad tohear you say it, all the same.  Someone's messing with you in a veryserious way.  Why?""Why?"  Anna closed her eyes briefly.  "So I don't get in a position todiscover why.  That's my guess."  She rang off hurriedly.What the hell was going on?  Had "Yossi" or Phil Ostrow put poison inBartlett's ear?  She'd never called them; maybe Bartlett was angry thatthey'd found out about her investigation in the first place, even thoughshe wasn't the responsible party.  Or maybe Bartlett was angry that shehadn't gone along with their request to bring Hartman in.She suddenly realized that neither agency official had mentioned HansVogler, the ex-Stasi assassin.  Did that mean "Yossi" knew nothing aboutit?  If so, did that mean that the Mossad freelancers had nothing to dowith hiring Vogler?  She retrieved Phil Ostrow's card and dialed thenumber.  It went to automated voice mail; and she decided againstleaving a message.Maybe lack Hampton would know something about it.  She phoned him athome, in Chevy Chase.  "lack," she began.  "It's--""Jesus Christ, tell me you're not calling me," Hampton said in a rush."Tell me you're not jeopardizing the security clearance of your friendsby a misjudged phone call.""Is there an intercept on your end?""My end?"  Hampton paused.  "No.  Never.  I make sure of it myself.""Then you're not in danger.  I'm on a secure line on this end.  I don'tsee any way by which a connection could be traced.""Let's say you're right, Anna," he said dubiously.  "You're stillpresenting me with a moral conundrum.  Word has it you're some primovillain ness--the way I've heard you described, it's like you're acombination of Ma Barker and Mata Hari.  With the wardrobe of ImeldaMarcos.""It's bullshit.  You know that.""Maybe I do, Anna, and maybe I don't.  The kind of sums I've heardbandied about would be awfully tempting.  Buy yourself a nice spit ofland in Virgin Gorda.  All that pink sand, blue sky.  Go snorkelingevery day...""Goddamn it, Jack!""A word of advice.  Don't take any woolen kopeks and don't whack anymore Swiss bankers.""Is that what they're saying about me.""One of the things.  One of the many things.  Let's just say it's thebiggest pile-on I've heard of since well Ho Lee.  It's a bit overdone,to tell you the truth.  I keep asking myself, Who's got that kind ofmoney to throw around?  Russia's so strapped for cash that most of itsnuclear scientists have left to drive taxicabs in New York.  And whatkind of hard currency does China have--the place is Zambia with nukes. Imean, let's get real."  Hampton's voice seemed to soften.  "So what areyou calling me for?  Want our current missile codes to sell to the RedChinese?  Just let me jot down your fax number.""Give me a break.""That's my hot tamale," Hampton teased, relaxing further."Screw you.  Listen, before all this shit fell from the sky, I had ameeting with your friend Phil Ostrow ...""Ostrow?"  Hampton said, guardedly.  "Where?""In Vienna."There was a flare of anger: "What are you trying to pull, Navarro?""Wait a minute.  I don't know what you're talking about."Something in her voice gave him pause.  "Are you shitting me, or wassomebody shitting you?""Ostrow's not attached to Vienna station?"  she asked hesitantly."He's on O-15.""Help me out here.""That means he's kept officially on the lists, but he's really on leave.Sow confusion among the bad guys that way.  Diabolical, what?""On leave how?""He's been stateside for a few months now.  Depression, if you want toknow.  He had episodes in the past, but it got real bad.  He's actuallybeen hospitalized at Walter Reed.""And that's where he is now."  Anna's scalp became tight; she tried toquell a rising sense of anxiety, "That's where he is now.  Sad but true.One of those wards where all the nurses have security clearances.""If I said Ostrow was a short guy, grayish-brownish hair, palecomplexion, wire-rim glasses... ?""I'd tell you to get your prescription checked.  Ostrow looks like anaging surfer bum tall, slim, blond hair, the works."Several seconds of silence ensued."Anna, what the hell is going on with you?"CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.Stunned, she sat back on the bed."What's wrong?"  Ben asked."I really can't get into it.""If it concerns the business we're both working on--""It doesn't.  Not this.  Those bastards!""What happened?""Please," she exclaimed.  "Let me think!""Fine."  Looking irritated, Ben took his digital phone from the pocketof his jacket.She thought: No wonder "Phil Ostrow" had called her late at night-whenit was too late to call the American embassy and check out his bonafides.  But then who was it she'd met with at CIA station?Was it in fact CIA station?Who were "Ostrow" and "Yossi"?She heard Ben speaking quickly in French.  Then he fell silent,listening for a while.  "Oscar, you're a genius," he finally said.A few minutes later, he was talking on his phone again.  "Megan Crosby,please."If "Phil Ostrow" was some kind of impostor, he had to be an enormouslyskilled actor.  And what was he doing?  "Yossi" could indeed have beenIsraeli, or of some other Middle Eastern nationality; it was hard totell."Megan, it's Ben," he said.Who were they?  she wondered.She picked up the phone and called Jack Hampton again.  "Jack, I needthe number of CIA station."  "What am I, directory assistance?""It's in the building across the street from the consular office,right?""CIA station is in the main embassy building, Anna.""No, the annex.  A commercial building across the street.  Under thecover of the Office of the United States Trade Representative.""I don't know what you're talking about.  CIA doesn't have any coversites outside of the one right in the embassy.  That / I know of anyway."She hung up, panic suffusing her body.  If that hadn't been a CIA sitewhere she'd met Ostrow, what was it?  The setting, the surroundingsevery detail had been right.  Too right, too convincing?"You've got to be kidding," she heard Ben say.  "Jesus, you're fast."So who was trying to manipulate her?  And to what end?  Obviouslysomeone, or some group, who knew she was in Vienna, knew what she wasinvestigating, and knew which hotel she was staying in.If Ostrow was some kind of impostor, then his story about the Mossad hadto be false.  And she had been the unwitting victim of an elaboratescam.  They'd planned to kidnap Hartman and have her deliver the"package" right into their clutches.She felt dazed and lost.In her mind she ran through everything, from "Ostrow's" phone call, tothe place she'd met him and "Yossi."  Was it really possible the wholething had been an elaborate ruse?She heard Hartman say: "All right, let me write this down.  Great work,kid.  Terrific."So the Mossad story, with all its rumors and undocumented whispers, wasnothing but a tale spun by liars out of plausible fragments?  My God,then how much of what she knew was wrong?And who was trying to mislead her and to what end?What was the truth?  Good God, where was the truth?"Ben," she said.He held up an index finger to signal her to wait, said something quicklyinto his phone, then flipped it closed.But then she quickly changed her mind, decided not to reveal to Benanything of what she'd just found out.  Not yet.  Instead, she asked,"Did you learn anything from Sonnenfeld?"Hartman told her about what Sonnenfeld had said, Anna interrupting everyonce in a while to clarify a point or ask for a fuller explanation."So are you saying your father wasn't a Nazi, after all.""Not according to Sonnenfeld, at least.""Did he have some inkling as to the meaning of Sigma?""Beyond what I said, he was vague about it.  And downright evasive whenit came to Strasser.""And as to why your brother was killed?""Obviously he was killed because of the threat of exposure.  Someone,maybe some group, feared the revelation of those names.""Or of the fact this corporation existed.  Clearly someone with a majorfinancial stake.  Which tells us that these old guys were " Suddenly shestopped.  "Of course!  The laundered money!  These old guys were beingpaid off.  Maybe by someone controlling the corporation they'd allhelped form.""Either paid off, as in bribed," Ben added, "or else they were receivingan agreed-upon distribution, a share of the profits."Anna stood.  "Eliminate the payees, then there's no more wire transfers.No more big pay days for a bunch of doddering old men. Which tells usthat whoever's ordering the murders stands to gain financially fromthem.  Has to be.  Someone like Strasser, or even your father." Shelooked at him.  She couldn't automatically rule it out. Even if hedidn't want to hear it.  His father might have been a murderer himselfmight have blood on his hands, might have been behind the murders atleast.But how to explain the intricate deception of Ostrow, the false CIA man?Might he have been somehow connected to the heirs to some vast hiddenfortune?"Theoretically, I suppose, my father could be one of the bad guys." Bensaid.  "But I really don't believe it.""Why not?"  She didn't know how far to push him on this."Because my father already has more money than he knows what to do with.Because he may be a ruthless businessman, and he may be a liar, butafter talking with Sonnenfeld, I'm coming to think that he wasn'tfundamentally an evil man."She doubted Hartman was holding anything back, but surely he washampered by filial loyalty.  Ben seemed to be a loyal person anadmirable quality, but sometimes loyalty could blind you to the truth."What I don't get is this: these guys are old and failing," Hartmancontinued.  "So why bother hiring someone to eliminate them?  It'shardly worth the risk.""Unless you're afraid one of them will talk, reveal the financialarrangement, whatever it is.""But if they haven't talked for half a century, what's going to makethem start now?""Maybe some sort of pressure by legal authorities, triggered by thesurfacing of this list.  Faced with the threat of legal action, any oneof them might easily have talked.  Or maybe the Corporation is moving toa new phase, a transition, and sees itself as peculiarly vulnerablewhile it's happening.""I'm hearing a lot of conjecture," he said.  "We need facts."She paused.  "Who were you talking to on the phone just now?""A corporate researcher I've used before.  She found some intriguingbackground on Vortex Laboratories."Anna was suddenly alert.  "Yes?""It's wholly owned by the European chemicals and technology giantArmakon AG.  An Austrian company.""Austrian ..."  she murmured.  "That is interesting.""Those mammoth technology firms are always buying up tiny tech startups,hoping to snag the rights to stuff their own in-house researchscientists haven't invented."  He paused.  "And one more thing.  Myfriend in the Caymans was able to trace a few of the wire transfers."Jesus.  And her guy at the DOJ had turned up nothing.  She tried toconceal her excitement.  "Tell me.""The money was sent from a shell company registered in the ChannelIslands, a few seconds after it came in from Liechtenstein, from anAnstalt, a bearer-share company.  Sort of a blind entity.""If it came from a company, does that mean the names of the true ownersare on file somewhere?""That's the tricky part.  Anstalts are usually managed by an agent,often an attorney.  They're essentially dummy corporations that existonly on paper.  An agent in Liechtenstein might manage thousands ofthem.""Was your friend able to get the name of the Anstalt's agent?""I believe so, yes.  Trouble is, barring torture, no agent will releaseinformation on any of the Anstalts he manages.  They can't afford tosabotage their reputation for discretion.  But my friend's working onit."She grinned.  The guy was growing on her.The phone rang.She picked it up.  "Navarro.""Anna, this is Walter Heisler.  I have results for you.""Results?""On the gun that was dropped by the shooter in Hietzing.  The prints youasked me to run.  It matched a print, a digitized print, on file atInterpol.  A Hans Vogler, ex-Stasi.  Maybe he doesn't expect to miss, ordoesn't expect us to be there, because he wears no gloves."Heisler's information was nothing new, but the fingerprints would be avaluable piece of evidence."Fantastic.  Walter, listen, I need to ask you another favor.""You don't sound surprised," Heisler said, miffed.  "I said he was ex-Stasi, you understand?  Former East German secret intelligence service.""Yes, Walter, I do understand, and I thank you.  Very impressive."  Shewas being too brusque again, too businesslike, and she tried to softenher approach.  "Thank you so much, Walter.  And just one more thing ..."Wearily: "Yes?""One second."  She covered the phone's mouthpiece and said to Ben, "Youstill haven't reached Hoffman?""Not a word.  No answer there--it's bizarre."She removed her hand from the mouthpiece.  "Walter, can you find out forme whatever you can about a private investigator in Vienna named HansHoffman?"There was silence."Hello?""Yes, Anna, I am here.  Why you ask about this Hans Hoffman?""I need some outside help here," she replied, thinking quickly, "and hisname was given to me--""Well, I think you may have to find someone else.""Why is that?""About an hour ago a call came in to the Stcherheitsburo from anemployee of a Berufsdetektiv named Hans Hoffman.  The woman, aninvestigator in Hoffman's office, came to work and discovered her bossdead.  Shot at point-blank range in the forehead.  And, curious--hisright forefinger was cut off.  Can this be the Hoffman you're talkingabout?"Ben had stared in disbelief when Anna told him what she'd learned."Christ, it's as if they're always just one behind us, whatever we do,"he murmured."Maybe 'ahead of us' is the more accurate term."Ben -massaged his temples with the fingertips of both hands, and at lasthe spoke in a quiet voice.  "The enemy of my enemy is my friend.""How do you mean?""Sigma has obviously been killing its own.  Those victims you're tryingto find they all have something in common with me, a shared enemy. We'veobserved the pattern frightened old men going into hiding in thetwilight of their lives, living under aliases.  It's a virtual certaintythat they have some idea what the hell's going on.  That means our onlyhope is to establish contact with someone on the list who's still alive,who can talk.  Someone with whom I can establish common ground, aconduit of sympathy, enlist his help for reasons of his ownself-protection."Anna stood, paced the room.  "That's if there is anyone alive, Ben."He stared at her a long while, saying nothing, the resolve in his eyeswavering.  She could tell that he longed to trust her every bit asfervently as she hoped she could trust him.  Softly, hesitantly, hereplied: "I have a feeling it's just a feeling, an educated guess thatthere may be at least one still alive.""Who's that?""A Frenchman named Georges Chardin."She nodded slowly.  "Georges Chardin ... I've seen the name on the Sigmalist but he's actually been dead for four years.""But the fact that his name was in the Sigma files means Alien Dulleshad him vetted for some reason.""Back in the fifties, yeah.  But remember, most of these people havebeen dead for a long while.  My focus was on the ones who had fallenvictim to the recent spate of killings or who were about to.  Chardinisn't in either category.  And he's not a founder, so he's not on yourincorporation document."  The Sigma list contains more names than justthe original incorporators.  She looked at Ben hard.  "My question is,how did you know to ask about him?  Are you holding out on me?"Ben shook his head."We don't have time to play games," Anna said.  "Georges Chardin I knowhim as a name on paper.  But he's no one famous, no one I'd ever heardof.  So what's his significance?""The significance is his boss, a legendary French industrialist a manwho was one of the incorporators in the photo.  A man named EmilMenard.  In his time, one of the greatest corporate titans.  Back in1945 he was a grand old man; he's long dead.""Him I know.  He was the founder of Trianon, generally considered thefirst modern corporate conglomerate, correct?""Right.  Trianon is one of the biggest industrial empires in France.Emil Menard built Trianon into a French petrochemical giant that madeeven Schlumberger look like a five-and-dime.""And so this Georges Chardin worked for the legendary Emil Menard?""Worked for him?  He just about did his breathing for him.  Chardin washis trusted lieutenant, aide-de-camp, factotum, whatever you want tocall him.  He wasn't just Menard's right-hand man, he was practicallyhis right hand.  Chardin was hired in 1950 when he was only twenty, andin a few short years the greenhorn changed the way the cost of capitalwas accounted for, introduced a sophisticated new way of calculatingreturn on investment, restructured the company accordingly.  Way aheadof his time.  A major figure.""In your world, maybe.""Granted.  Point is, in very short order, the old man trusted his youngprotege with everything, every detail in running his vast enterprise.After 1950, Emil Menard didn't go anywhere without Chardin.  They sayChardin had all the firm's ledgers memorized.  He was a walkingcomputer."  Ben produced the yellowed photograph of the Sigma group andplaced it in front of Anna, pointing out Emil Menard's countenance."What do you see?""Menard looks pretty haggard, to tell the truth.  Not well at all.""Correct.  He was pretty seriously ill at that point.  Spent the lastdecade of his life fighting cancer, though he was an incrediblyformidable man right up until the end.  But he died with the supremeconfidence that his corporation would remain strong, continue to grow,because he had such a brilliant young Directeur General du Departementdes Finance basically his chief financial officer.""So you're speculating that Menard would have trusted Georges Chardinwith the secret of the Sigma enterprise as well?""I'm virtually certain of it.  No doubt Chardin was completely in thebackground.  But he was Menard's shadow every step of the way.  It'sinconceivable that Chardin wouldn't have been completely privy to thesubstance of Sigma, whatever its objectives and methods.  And look at itfrom Sigma's point of view: in order to stay alive, regardless of itstrue purpose, Sigma had to keep bringing in new recruits to replace theoriginal founders.  So Chardin is bound to have played a significantrole, likely as a member of its inner council Menard would have madesure of that.""O.K."  O.K."  you've got me convinced," Anna put in impatiently.  "Butwhere does that get us today?  We already know Chardin died four yearsago.  You think he might have left files, papers, or something?""We're told that Chardin died four years ago, sure.  Right around thesame time that my brother, Peter, arranged his fake death.  What if hedid something like what Peter did arranged to disappear, go into hiding,escape the killers he knew were after him?""Come on, Ben!  You're making all sorts of assumptions, jumping tounwarranted conclusions!"Ben replied patiently, "Your list indicated that he perished in a fire,right?  The old 'burned beyond recognition' ruse?  Like my brother?Sorry; won't get fooled again."  He seemed to recognize the skepticismin her face.  "Listen to me!  You said it yourself.  We have a string ofold men who were killed presumably because somebody viewed them as athreat.  Sigma, or its heirs or controllers.  So let's think this out:why might a bunch of old guys in the twilight of their lives beconsidered a serious enough threat to be murdered?"  He stood up, beganto pace.  "You see, the mistake I was making all along was in viewingSigma as merely a front organization, a false corporation instead of agenuine one.""How do you mean?""It should have been so obvious!  I can give you a hundred instancesfrom my Wall Street days.  In 1992, one guy ousted another rival tobecome the sole CEO of Time Warner, and his first order of business waswhat?  To purge the hostiles from the board of directors.  That's whatmanagement does.  You get rid of your adversaries!""But the Time Warner guy didn't kill his opponents, I assume," she saiddryly."On Wall Street we have different techniques for eliminating enemies."Ben gave a twisted smile.  "But he eliminated them all the same.  It'swhat always happens when there's an abrupt change in management.""So you're suggesting there's been a 'change in management' at Sigma.""Exactly.  A purge of what you might call dissident trustees.""Rossignol, Mailhot, Prosper!"  and the rest--you're saying they wereall dissidents?  On the wrong side of the new management?""Something like that.  And Georges Chardin was known to be brilliant. Nodoubt he saw it coming, and so he arranged to disappear.""Maybe yes, maybe no.  But it's still all in the realm of wildspeculation.""Not quite," Ben said softly.  He turned to face Anna directly."Beginning with the time-honored principle "Follow the money," I hired aFrench investigator we've used before at Hartman Capital Management. Awizard named Oscar Peyaud.  We've used him for due diligence work inParis, and every time he blows us away with the speed and quality of hiswork.  And the size of his bill, but that's another matter.""Thanks for keeping me in the loop about what you were doing," Anna saidwith heavy sarcasm.  "So much for being partners.""Listen to me.  A man can't live without some form of financial support.So I got to thinking, what would happen if you could track down theexecutor to Chardin's estate--see in what form he left his assets, howhe might have retained access to them."  He paused, took out a foldedsheet of paper from his jacket pocket.  "An hour ago this arrived fromParis, from Oscar Peyaud."The page was blank except for a brief address:Rogier Chabot1554 rue des VignolesPans 20Anna looked up, at once puzzled and excited.  "Chabot?"  "GeorgesChardin's alias, I would bet.  I think we have our man.  Now it's just amatter of our getting to him before Sigma does."An hour later, the phone on Walter Heisler's desk rang.  A cycle of twoshort rings: an internal line.  Heisler was drawing deep on acigarette-he was working through the third pack of Casablancas of theday-when he picked up, and there was a two-second pause before he spoke:"Heisler."It was the tech from the small room on the fifth floor.  "Did you getthe bulletin on the American, Navarro?""What bulletin?"  Heisler slowly let the warm smoke plume through hisnostrils."Just came in.""Then it's probably been sitting in the message center all morning." TheSicherheitsburo message center, operating with what he regarded asthird-world inefficiency, was a bane of his existence.  "What's up,then?  Or do I need to find out by listening to the news on the radio?"This was how he had taken to formulating the complaint.  Once he reallydid find out the whereabouts of a fugitive from a local radio station,the messengers having misplaced the morning's faxed bulletin somewhereenroute to his desk."She's a rogue, it seems.  We've been used.  The U.S. government has awarrant out for her.  Not my department, but I thought somebody shouldgive you a heads-up.""Christ!"  Heisler said, and let his cigarette drop from his mouth intohis mug of coffee, heard the quick sizzle of the quenched butt.  "Shit!A fucking embarrassment.""Not so embarrassing if you're the one who brings her in, eh?"  the techsaid carefully."Checking out of Room 1423," Anna said to the harried-looking clerk atthe front desk.  She placed her two electronic key-cards on the blackgranite counter."One moment, please.  If I can just have your signature on the finalbill, ja?"  The man was weary-looking, and fortyish, with slightlyconcave cheeks, and dirty-blond hair--dyed?--combed forward, flatagainst his skull, in a seeming attempt to simulate youth.  He wore acrisp uniform jacket of some sort of brown synthetic, with slightlyfraying epaulets.  Anna had a sudden vision of him as she imagined hebecame after hours--dressed in black leather, heavily spritzed withmusky cologne, haunting nightclubs where the dim light might help himget lucky with a sc hone Madchen."Of course," Anna said."We hope you enjoyed your stay, Ms.  Navarro."  He typed numbers on akeyboard, and then looked up at her, showing a toothy, yellow tingedsmile.  "Apologies.  It's going to take a few moments to bring therecords up.  A problem in the system.  Computers, right?"  He smiledwider, as if he had said something witty.  "Wonderful labor-savingdevices.  When they work.  Let me get the manager."  He picked up a redhandset, and said a few words in German."What's going on," asked Ben, who was standing behind her."A computer problem, he says," Anna murmured.From behind the counter, a short, big-bellied man emerged in a dark suitand tie.  "I'm the manager, and I'm so sorry for the delay," the mansaid to her.  He exchanged glances with the clerk.  "A glitch. It'sgoing to take a few minutes to retrieve the records.  Phone calls, allof that.  We'll get it for you soon, and then you can take a look andmake sure it looks right.  Wouldn't want you billed for the phone callsin Room 1422.  Sometimes happens with the new system.  Miracle of moderntechnology."Something was wrong, and it wasn't the computer system.The manager was jovial and reassuring and effusive, and yet, despite thelobby's slight chilliness, Anna noticed the beads of sweat on hisforehead.  "Come and sit in my office while we get this straightenedout.  Take a load off your feet, yes?  You're off to the airport, yes?You have transportation arranged?  Why don't you let the hotel car takeyou our compliments.  The least we can do for the inconvenience.""That's very kind of you," Anna said, thinking that she recognized thetype well from her years of investigations the type of person whomtension made talkative.  The man was under orders to detain them.  Thatmuch was clear."Not at all.  Not at all.  You come with me, and have a nice cup ofcoffee.  Nobody makes it like the Viennese, yes?"Most likely, he hadn't been informed why, or whether they weredangerous.  He must have been instructed to notify security, butsecurity must not have arrived yet, or he wouldn't be so anxious.  Shewas checking out of the hotel prematurely.  Which meant... well, therewas more than one possibility.  Perhaps she he?  they?  had onlyrecently been targeted.  In which case, preparations would not be fullyin place."Listen," she said.  "Why don't you just figure it out on your own timeand send me the bill?  No biggie, huh?""It will be just a few minutes," the manager said, but he was notlooking at her.  Instead, he was making eye contact with a guard acrossthe lobby.Anna looked at her wristwatch ostentatiously.  "Your cousins are goingto be wondering what happened to us," she said to Ben.  "We'd better geta move on."The manager stepped around the counter, and placed a clammy hand on herarm.  "In just a few minutes," he said.  Up close, he smelledunappetizingly of grilled cheese and hair oil."Get your hands off me," Anna said in a tone of low menace.  Ben wasstartled by the sudden steel in her voice."We can take you wherever you want to go," the manager protested, in atone that was more wheedling than threatening.From across the lobby, the security guard was reducing the distancebetween him and them with long, fast strides.Anna hoisted her garment bag over her shoulder and headed for the frontdoor.  "Follow me," she said to Ben.The two made their way quickly toward the entrance.  The lobby guard,she knew, would have to confer with the manager before pursuing themoutside of the building.On the sidewalk in front of the hotel, she looked around carefully.  Atthe end of the block, she saw a police officer speaking into a walkietalkie, presumably giving his location.  Which meant that he was likelythe first on the scene.She tossed her bag to Ben, and headed straight over to the policeman."Christ, Anna!"  Ben snapped.Anna stopped the policeman, and spoke to him in a loud, officialsounding voice.  "You speak English?""Yes," the cop said uncertainly.  "English, yes."  He was crew-cut,athletic, and seemed to be in his late twenties."I'm with the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation," Anna said.  "TheFederal Bureau of Investigation, do you understand?  The FBI.  We'relooking for an American fugitive from justice, and I've got to ask foryour help.  The woman's name is Anna Navarro."  She flashed her OSIbadge quickly while holding his gaze; he would see it without reallylooking at it."You say Anna Navarro," the policeman said with recognition and relief."Yes.  We've been notified.  In the hotel, yes?""She's barricaded herself in her room," Anna said.  "Fourteenth floor.Room 1423.  And she's traveling with someone, right?"The policeman shrugged.  "Anna Navarro is the name we have," he said.Anna nodded.  It was an important piece of information.  "I've got twoagents in place, all right?  But as observers.  We can't act on Austrianterritory.  It's up to you.  I'm going to ask you to take the serviceentrance, on the side of the building, and make your way to thefourteenth floor.  Are you O.K. with that?""Yes, yes," the policeman said."And spread the word, O.K.?"He nodded eagerly.  "We'll get her for you.  Austria is, how do you say,a law-and-order place, yes?"Anna shot him his warmest smile.  "We're counting on you."A few minutes later, Ben and Anna were in a taxicab enroute to theairport."That was pretty ballsy," Ben said quietly.  "Going up to the cop thatway.""Not really.  Those are my people.  I figured they'd just got word, orthey would have been better prepared.  Which means they had no idea whatI look like.  All they know is that they're looking for an American, onbehalf of the Americans.  No way of knowing whether I'm the one topursue or the one in pursuit.""When you put it that way..."  Ben shook his head.  "But why are theyafter you anyway?""I haven't exactly figured it out, yet.  I do know that somebody's beenspreading the word that I've gone rogue.  Selling state secrets orwhatever.  The question is who, and how, and why.""Sounds to me like Sigma is going through channels.  Using real policethrough manipulation.""Does, doesn't it?""This is not good," Ben said.  "The idea that we're going to have everycop in Europe on our ass, on top of whatever psycho-killers Sigma has onthe payroll--it's going to put a crimp in the game plan.""That's one way to put it," Anna said."We're dead.""That's a little harsh."  Anna shrugged.  "How about we approach thisthing one step at a time?""How?""Ben Hartman and Anna Navarro are going to book a flight from Graz,about a hundred and fifty kilometers south, to Munich.""And what are we going to do in Munich?""We're not going to Munich.  The thing is, I already put a trace on yourcredit cards.  That's a genie I can't put back in the bottle.  You useany card under your name, and it's going to sound an immediate alarm inWashington and God knows what branch offices we've got.""So we're screwed.""So we use that.  I need you to focus, Ben.  Look, your brother preparedtravel documents for him and Liesl, in case they needed to take offincognito.  As far as we know, the IDs are still good, and the creditcard ought to be functional.  John and Paula Freedman are going to booktickets from Vienna on the next available flight to Paris. ReplacingLiesl's photo with mine won't be a problem.  A couple of generic-lookingAmericans, among tens of thousands who come in and out of the airportevery day.""Right," Ben said.  "Right.  I'm sorry, Anna.  I'm not thinking clearly.But there are still risks, aren't there?""Of course there are.  Whatever we do has risks.  But if we leave now,the chances are good that they're not going to have photographs inplace, and they're not looking for Mr.  and Mrs.  Freedman.  The mainthing is to stay calm and stay smart.  Ready to improvise, if need be.""Sure," Ben said, but he didn't sound it.She looked at him.  He somehow seemed young, younger than he'd been; thecockiness was gone, and he needed, she sensed, some reassurance. "Afterall you've been through, I know you're not going to lose your head.  Youhaven't yet.  And right now, that's probably the most important thing.""Getting to Chardin is the most important thing.""We'll get to him," Anna said, gritting her teeth in resolve.  "We'llget to him."ZurichMatthias Deschner pressed both hands to his face, hoping for a moment ofclarity in the darkness.  One of the credit cards that Liesl's boyfriendhad, through his offices, established and maintained, had finally beenput to use.  The call was pro forma: because the account had not beenused in quite some time, it fell to a clerk in a credit-securitydepartment somewhere to place a call and ascertain that the card had notgone missing.Peter had provided for the automatic payment of the annual fee; thename, telephone number, and mailing address involved a corporate entitythat Matthias had set up for him; all communications went to Deschner,as its legal representative.  Deschner had felt quite uncomfortable withthe whole thing it seemed legally dubious, to say the least but Lieslimplored him for his help, and, well, he had done what he had done.  Inretrospect, he should have run, run in the opposite direction.  Deschnerbelieved himself to be an honorable man, but he had never had illusionsof heroism.Now a dilemma had arisen for a second time in a matter of days.  Damnthat Ben Hartman.  Damn both the Hartman boys.Deschner wanted to keep his word to Peter and Liesl wanted to eventhough they both were now dead.  But they were dead, and with it hisoath.  And there were now larger considerations.His own survival, for one.Bernard Suchet, at the Handelsbank, was too smart to have believed himwhen he said he'd been completely ignorant of what Peter Hartman wasinvolved in.  In truth, it was more a case of not wanting to know, ofbelieving that what he did not know could not hurt him.That was no longer true.The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.Liesl was a lovely girl he got a lump in his throat when he thoughtabout the necessary past tense but it had been wrong of her, all thesame, to have involved him in her affairs.  It was an abuse of familialloyalties, was it not?  He imagined himself carrying on a conversation,an argument, really, with his deceased cousin.  It was wrong of her, sovery wrong.  He never wanted any part of her crusade.  Had she any ideaof the position she put him in?Her words returned to him: We need your help.  That is all.  There isnobody else we can turn to.  Deschner remembered the luminous clarity ofher blue eyes, like a deep reservoir of alpine water, eyes whoserighteousness seemed to expect equal righteousness in everyone else.Deschner felt the beginnings of a throbbing headache.  The young womanhad asked for too much, that was all.  Probably of the world, andcertainly of him.She had made enemies of an organization that murdered people with thesimple indifference of a meter maid dispensing parking tickets.  NowLiesl was dead, and it seemed quite possible that she would take himwith her.They would learn that the card had been activated.  And then they wouldlearn that Dr.  Matthias Deschner had himself been notified of this factbut failed to report it.  Soon there would be no more Dr. MatthiasDeschner.  He thought of his daughter, Alma, who in just two monthswould be getting married.  Alma had talked about how much she waslooking forward to walking down the aisle with her father by her side.He swallowed hard and imagined Alma walking down the aisle alone. No, itcould not be.  It would be not just reckless but actively selfish ofhim.The throbbing behind his eyes was undiminished.  He reached into hisdesk drawer, removed a bottle of Panadol, and dry-swallowed a bitter,chalky tablet.He looked at the clock.He would report the credit activation call.  But not immediately.  Hewould wait for several hours to pass.  Then he would call.The tardiness could be easily explained, and they would be grateful forhis having volunteered the information.  Surely they would.And just maybe the delay would give the Hartman boy a running start.  Afew more hours on this earth, anyway.  He owed him that much, Deschnerdecided, but perhaps no more.CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.ParisThe twentieth arrondissement of Paris, its eastern most, and seamiest,district, slopes on a butte adjoining the highway that rings Paris anddefines its limits, the Peripherique.  In the eighteenth century, theland supported a village of wine growers called Charonne.  Over theyears, the vineyards gave way to small houses, and the houses, in turn,had largely given way to charm less unlovely structures of concrete.Today, such street names as the rue des Vignoles seem laughably out ofplace in the downtrodden urban milieu.The trip to Paris had been nerve-racking; every incidental glance seemedto hold meaning, the very impassivity of les douaniers, the customsofficials, seemed a possible subterfuge, a prelude to arrest. But Annahad experience with the balkiness of international alerts, knew how thebureaucracies of each border authority impeded the efficient executionof security directives.  She wasn't surprised that they'd slippedthrough.  She also knew that, next time, it was a good bet theywouldn't.Only in the near anonymity of the dense-packed RER from De Gaulle didthey start to relax.  Now Anna and Ben emerged from the Gambetta metrostop, walked passed the large Maine, or courthouse, and down the rueVitruve to the rue des Orteaux.  They turned right.  Opposite them, toeither side of the rue des Vignoles, were several narrow streets thatfollowed the precise layout of the vineyards that they supplanted.The area around Charonne, just south of Belleville, was among the leastproto typically Parisian of Parisian neighborhoods, its denizens aslikely to be Africans, Spaniards, or Antilleans as French.  Even beforerecent waves of immigration, however, it had long earned the scorn ofthe city's bourgeois.  It was a place where the poor and the criminalclasses were seen to have congregated, a place where theinsurrectionists of the Paris Commune, fueled by the disarray of theSecond Empire, found populist support.  A place of the disaffected, andthe neglected.  The twentieth arrondissement's one claim to fame was thecemetery du Pere La chaise, a forty-four hectare garden of graves;starting in the nineteenth century, Parisians who would never otherwisedeign to visit this arrondissement, let alone live there, agreed toconsign their bodies there after death.Dressed in the casual attire of American tourists, Anna and Ben took intheir surroundings as they walked: the aroma of falafel stands, thethudding rhythm of North African pop spilling from open windows, streetvendors hawking tube socks and dog-eared copies of Paris Match.  Thepeople on the street came in every color, and spoke in a variety ofaccents.  There were the young artists with complicated body piercingswho no doubt saw themselves as the legitimate successors to MarcelDuchamp; there were immigrants from the Mahgreb hoping to earn enoughmoney to send to their relatives in Tunisia or Algeria.  The smell ofpot or hashish, rich and resinous, wafted from the occasional alleyway."It's hard to imagine a corporate honcho retiring to this sort ofneighborhood," Anna said.  "What, did they run out of beachfrontproperties at Cote d'Azure?""Actually, it's nearly perfect," Ben said, reflective.  "If you wantedto disappear, there's no better place.  Nobody notices anybody else,nobody knows anybody else.  If for some reason you wanted to stay intown, it's the most heterogeneous place you'll find, thronged withstrangers, new immigrants, artists, eccentrics of every persuasion." Benknew this city, as Anna did not, and his familiarity gave him a measureof much needed confidence.Anna nodded.  "Safety in numbers.""Plus you're still near local mass transit, a maze of streets, a fasttrain out of town, and the Peripherique.  A good setup when you'replanning multiple escape routes."Anna smiled.  "You're a fast learner.  Sure you don't want a job as agovernment investigator?  We can offer you a salary of fifty-fivethousand dollars and your very own parking space.""Tempting," Ben said.They walked past La Fleche d'Or, the red-tile-roofed restaurant that wasperched over a rusted ghost track.  Then Ben led the way down anotherblock to a small Moroccan cafe, where the air was humid and fragrantwith various couscous dishes.  "I can't vouch for the food," he said."But the view has a lot to recommend it."Through the plate glass, they could see the stone triangle that wasrue des Vignoles.  Seven stories high, the building occupied afreestanding island surrounded by narrow streets on three sides.  Itsfacade was stained dark with automotive exhaust and dappled with acidicbird droppings.  Squinting, Anna could make out the anomalous remains ofdecorative gargoyles; erosion from the elements made them look as ifthey had melted in the sun.  The marble ledges, ornamental revetment,and parapets seemed the folly of a long-ago builder, a throwback to anera when some still harbored up market dreams for the arrondissement.The building, unremarkable in most ways, breathed the gentle decrepitudeof neglect and indifference."According to my source, Peyaud, he's known as "L'Ermite."  The hermit.He lives on the entire top floor.  Makes noises from time to time, sothey know he's there.  That and the deliveries he gets--groceries andthe like.  But even the delivery boys have never seen him.  They dropoff the stuff in the dumbwaiter, and collect their francs when thedumbwaiter comes back down.  The few people who pay him any mind at allpretty much dismiss him as a real eccentric.  Then again, this place ispopulated with eccentrics."  He tucked into his lamb tagine greedily."So he's reclusive.""Very reclusive.  It's not just the delivery boys he avoids--nobody'sever seen him.  Peyaud talked to the woman who lives on the groundfloor.  She and everyone else in the building have decided he's anelderly, paranoid, morbidly shy rentier.  A case study in advancedagoraphobia.  They don't realize that he owns the building.""And you think we're going to make an unannounced visit to this possiblyunhinged, possibly paranoid, possibly dangerous, and certainly disturbedand frightened individual, and he's going to pour us some decaf and tellus whatever we want to know?""No, I'm not saying that at all."  Ben gave her a reassuring grin.  "Itmight not be decaf.""You have boundless faith in your own charm, I'll give you that."  Annalooked doubtfully at her vegetarian couscous.  "He does speak English?""Fluently.  Almost all French businessmen do, which is how you can tellthem apart from French intellectuals."  He wiped his mouth with a flimsypaper napkin.  "My contribution is, I got us here.  You're theprofessional; you're in charge now.  What do the field manuals say? Whatdo you do in a situation like this--what's the established modusoperandi?""Let me think.  The MO for a friendly visit with a psychotic whom theworld believes to be dead and who you think holds the secret to amenacing global organization?  I'm not so sure that one's in the fieldmanual, Ben."The lamb tagine started to weigh heavily in his stomach.She took his hand as they stood up.  "Just follow my lead."Therese Broussard gazed sullenly out the window, down at the foottraffic on the rue des Vignoles seven stories below.  She gazed as shemight have gazed at a fire, if her chimney hadn't been plugged withconcrete years back.  She gazed as she might have gazed at her littletelevision set, if it hadn't been detraquee for the past month.  Shegazed to sooth her nerves and alleviate her boredom; she gazed becauseshe had nothing better to do.  Besides, she'd just spent ten minutesironing her large, baggy undergarments, and needed a break.A heavy-set, doughy-faced woman of seventy-four with piggy features andlank black-dyed hair, Therese still told people she was a dressmaker,even though she hadn't cut a piece of fabric in ten years, and eventhough she was never particularly accomplished at it.  She grew up inBelleville, left school at the age of fourteen, and was never prettyenough to count on attracting the sort of man who would support her. Inshort, she had to learn a trade.  As it happened, her grandmother had afriend who was a dressmaker and who agreed to take the girl on as anassistant.  The old woman's hands were stiff with arthritis, and hereyes had grown dim; Therese could be helpful, though the old woman--TatiJeanne, Therese was encouraged to call her--always parted with thepaltry few francs she paid her each week with an air of reluctance. TatiJeanne's already small clientele was dwindling, and with it herearnings; it was painful to have to share even a tiny amount withsomeone else.One day in 1945, a bomb fell near Therese as she was walking down thePorte de la Chapelle, and, though she was physically unharmed, the blastentered her dreams at night and stopped her from sleeping.  Her nervouscondition only worsened over time.  She would start at the slightestnoise, and she started to eat voraciously, whenever she could find thefood to stuff herself with.  When Tati Jeanne died, Therese took on herremaining clients, but it was scarcely a living.She was alone, as she'd always feared, but she had also learned therewere worse things: she owed Laurent that much.  Shortly after her sixtyfifth birthday, she met Laurent at the rue Ramponeau, in front of theSoeurs de Nazareth, where she collected a weekly parcel of food.Laurent, another native of the Menilmontant area, was a decade olderthan she was, and looked older still.  Hunched and bald, he wore aleather jacket whose sleeves were too long for him.  He was walking asmall dog, a terrier, and she asked the dog's name, and they began totalk.  He told her that he fed his dog, Poupee, before he fed himself,gave the dog first choice of everything.  She told him about her panicattacks, and the fact that a magistrate for social services, I'Assedic,had once placed her under supervision.  The magistrate also made surethat the state would provide her with five hundred francs a week.  Hisinterest in her perked up when he learned of the support she received. Amonth later, they were married.  He moved into her flat near Charonne;to an impartial eye, it may have appeared small, spare, and dingy but itwas still more appealing than his own place, from which he was about tobe evicted.  Soon after they were married, Laurent pressed her to returnto her sewing: they needed the money, the food parcels from the Soeursscarcely lasted them half the week, the checks from I'Assedic werewoefully inadequate.  She told people she was a dressmaker, didn't she?Why, then, didn't she make dresses?  She demurred, quietly at first,holding out her pudgy, blunt fingers, and explaining she no longer hadthe manual dexterity.  He remonstrated, less quietly.  She counteredwith no little vehemence, pointing out that he had a knack for gettingfired from even the lowliest jobs, and that she would never have marriedhim if she'd known what a drunkard he was.  Seven months later, in theheat of one of these increasingly frequent arguments, Laurent keeledover.  His last words to her were "T'es gras se comtne une truie" Youfat sow.  Therese let a few minutes pass and her temper subside beforeshe phoned for an ambulance.  Later, she'd learn that her husband hadbeen felled by a massive hemorrhagic stroke an aneurysm deep in thebrain.  A harried physician told her something about how blood vesselswere like inner tubes, and how a weakness in a vessel wall couldsuddenly give way.  She wished Laurent's last words to her had been morecivil.To her few friends, she referred to her husband as a saint, but no onewas fooled.  Having been married was, at any rate, an education.  Formuch of her life, she believed that a husband would have made her lifecomplete.  Laurent had showed her the untrustworthy nature of all men.As she watched various figures on the street corner near her hulking,poured-concrete apartment building, she fantasized about their privatedeviances.  Which of these men was a junkie?  Which a thief?  Which beathis girlfriend?A knock at the door, loud and authoritative, jarred her from herreveries.  "Je suis de I'Assedic, laissez-moi entrer, s'll vous plait!"A man from the welfare department, asking to be let in."Why did you not buzz?"  barked Madame Broussard."But I did buzz.  Repeatedly.  The buzzer is broken.  As is the gate. Doyou claim you didn't know?""But why are you here?  Nothing about my status has changed," sheprotested.  "My support...""Is under review," the man said, officiously.  "I think we canstraighten this all out if we just go over a few matters.  Otherwise,the payments come to an end.  I do not wish that to happen."Therese trudged heavily over to the door and peered through thepeephole.  The man had the familiar haughtiness she associated with allfonctionnaires of the French state--clerks who imagined themselves to becivil servants, men given a thimbleful of power, and made despotic byit.  Something about his voice, his accent seemed less familiar. Perhapshe came from a Belgian family.  Therese did not like les Beiges.She squinted.  The man from social services was attired in the thinworsted wool jacket and cheap tie that seemed to come with the job; hishair was a thatch of salt and pepper and he seemed an unremarkablespecimen except for his smooth, unlined face; the skin would be babyish,if it didn't look almost tight.Therese unlocked the two deadbolts and released the chain beforepressing the final latch and opening the door.As Ben followed Anna out of the cafe, he kept his eye on 1554 rue desVignoles, trying to fathom its mysteries.  The building was a picture ofordinary dilapidation--too distressed to excite anyone's admiration,while not so distressed as to arrest anyone's attention.  But looking atit carefully--an exercise, Ben imagined, that no one had engaged in formany years--one could see the bones of a once elegant apartmentbuilding.  It was evident from the oriel windows, crested with carvedlimestone, now randomly chipped and fractured.  It was evident from thecorners of the building, the quoins, where dressed stones had been laidso that their faces were alternately large and small; and the mansardroof, edged with a low, crumbling parapet.  It was evident even from thenarrow ledges that had once provided a balcony, before the iron rail wasremoved, no doubt after it had rusted to pieces and posed a hazard topublic safety.  A century ago, a measure of care had gone into thebuilding's construction, which decades of indifference could notentirely efface.Anna's instructions to him had been clear.  They would join a group ofpassersby as they crossed the street, falling into rhythm with theirstride.  They would be indistinguishable from people whose destinationwas the nearby shop that sold cheap liquor and cigarettes, or theshawartna place next to it, where a large, fatty oval loaf of meatrotated, close enough to the sidewalk that you could reach out and touchit; certainly swarms of flies did.  Anyone watching from the windowwould see no departure from the ordinary patterns of pedestrian traffic;only when they passed in front of the main door would the two stop andenter."Ring the bell?"  Ben asked as they reached the building's mainentrance."If we rang the bell, we wouldn't be unannounced, would we?  I thoughtthat was the plan."  Glancing around quickly, Anna inserted a narrowtongue of steel into the lock and played with it for a few moments.Nothing.Ben felt a sense of rising panic.  So far, they had been careful toblend in, to synchronize their pace with those of other pedestrians. Butnow they found themselves frozen in place; any casual observer wouldnotice that something was wrong, that they did not belong here."Anna," he murmured with quiet urgency.She was bent over her work, and he could see that her forehead was dampwith nervous perspiration.  "Take out your wallet and start countingyour bills," she whispered.  "Take out a phone and check for messages.Do something.  Calmly.  Slowly.  Languorously."The faint sound of metal rattling against metal continued as she spoke.Then finally, there was the sound of a bolt retracting.  Anna turned thelever knob and opened the door.  "Sometimes these locks require a littletender loving care.  Anyway, it's not exactly high security.""Hidden in plain view, I think is the idea.""Hidden, anyway.  I thought you said nobody had ever seen him.""That's true.""Did you stop and reflect that if he wasn't crazy when he started out,he might have become so?  Total social isolation will do that to aperson."  Anna led him to the disheveled elevator.  She pressed the callbutton, and they briefly listened to a rattling chain before theydecided that taking the stairwell was the safer option.  They made theirway up seven flights, taking care to make as little noise as possible.The hallway of the top floor, an affair of grimy white tiles, stretchedbefore them.Startlingly, the doorway of the sole apartment on the floor was alreadyswinging open."Monsieur Chabot," Anna called out.There was no response."Monsieur Chardin!"  she called, exchanging a look with Ben.There was a movement from within, shrouded in the gloom."Georges Chardin!"  Anna called again.  "We come with information thatmay be of value to you."A few moments of silence followed--and then a deafening blast.What had happened?A glance at the hallway directly facing the open door made things clear:it was cratered with a deadly spray of lead pellets.Whoever was in there was firing a shotgun at them."I don't know what's wrong with you people," Therese Broussard said,color rising to her cheeks.  "Nothing has changed about my circumstancessince my husband died.  Nothing, I tell you."The man appeared with a large black suitcase, and strode past her to thewindow, ignoring her for the moment.  A very strange man."A nice view," the man said."It gets no direct light," Therese contradicted him scoldingly.  "Formost of the day, it is dark.  You could develop film in here.""For some pursuits, that can be an advantage."Something was wrong.  His accent was slipping, his French losing thestraightened cadences of the social-services bureaucracy, sounding morecasual, somehow less French.Therese took a few steps away from the man.  Her pulse quickened as shesuddenly remembered the reports of a rapist who had been brutalizingwomen in the vicinity of the Place de la Reunion.  Some of the women hadbeen older, too.  This man was an impostor, she decided. Her instinctstold her so.  Something about the way the man moved, with coiled,reptilian strength, confirmed her growing suspicion that he was, infact, the Reunion rapist.  Man dieu!  He'd gained the trust of hisvictims, she had heard victims who had invited the assailant into theirvery homes!All her life, people had told her that she suffered from une mala dienerve use  She knew better: she saw things, felt things, that others didnot.  Yet now, crucially, her antennae had failed her.  How could shehave been so foolish!  Her eyes darted wildly around her apartment,looking for something she could use to protect herself.  She picked up aheavy clay pot that contained a slightly shriveled rubber plant."I demand that you leave at once!"  she said in a trembling voice."Madame, your demands are meaningless to me," the smooth-faced man saidquietly.  He looked at her with quiet menace, a confident predator whoknew that his prey was hopelessly out matched.She saw a flash of silver as he unsheathed a long, curved blade, andthen she threw the heavy pot at him with all her might.  But its weightworked against her: it arced quickly downward, striking the man in thelegs, knocking him a few steps back but leaving him unharmed.  JesusChrist!  What else could she use to defend herself?  Her littlebroken-down TV!  She yanked it from the countertop, hoisted it withgreat effort above her head, and tossed it at him as if aiming for theceiling.  The man, smiling, sidestepped the crude projectile.  Itthudded against the wall, then dropped to the floor, its plastic casingshattered along with the picture tube.Dear God, no!  There had to be something else.  Yes the iron on theironing board!  Had she even turned it off?  Therese dashed toward theiron, but as she grabbed it the intruder saw what she was attempting."Stop where you are, you revolting old cow," called the man, a look ofdisgust crossing his face.  "Putain de merde!"  With a lightning-fastmotion, he grabbed another, smaller knife and flung it across the room.The deeply beveled steel came to a razor-sharp edge along the entire,arrow-shaped blade; the hollowed tang provided a streamlinedcounterweight.Therese never saw it coming, but she felt its impact as the blade burieditself deep into her right breast.  At first she thought whatever it washad struck her and bounced off.  Then she looked down and saw the steelhandle protruding from her blouse.  It was odd, she thought, that shefelt nothing; but then a sensation--cold, like an icicle--began to grow,and an area of red blossomed around the steel.  Fear drained from her,replaced with sheer rage.  This man thought she was just another victim,but he had misjudged her.  She remembered the nighttime visits from herdrunken father, which started when she was fourteen, his breath smellinglike sour milk as he worked his stubby fingers into her, hurting herwith his ragged nails.  She remembered Laurent, and his last words toher.  Indignation flooded her like water from an underground cistern,from every time she'd ever been taunted, cheated, bullied, abused.Bellowing, she charged the evil intruder, all two hundred and fiftypounds of her.And she tackled him, too, slammed him to the ground by sheer momentum.She would have been proud of what she'd accomplished, trme gras se orno, if the man hadn't shot her dead a split-second before her bodycrashed into his.Trevor shuddered with revulsion as he pushed the obese, lifeless bodyoff him.  The woman was only slightly less off-putting in death thatshe'd been in life, he reflected as he returned his silenced pistol toits holster, feeling the cylinder's heat against his thigh.  The twinbullet holes in her forehead were like a second pair of eyes.  Hedragged her away from the window.  In retrospect, he should have shother immediately upon gaining entry, but who knew she would turn out tobe such a maniac?  Anyway, there was always something unexpected.  Thatwas why he liked his vocation.  It was never entirely routine; there wasalways the possibility of surprise, new challenges.  Nothing, of course,he couldn't handle.  Nothing had ever turned up that the Architectcouldn't handle."Christ," Anna whispered.  She had avoided the shotgun spray by a coupleof feet at most.  "Not exactly the welcome wagon."  But where was theshooter?A steady succession of blasts was coming from the open apartment door,from somewhere within its darkened interior.  Apparently the gunman wasfiring through the gap between the heavy steel door and the doorjamb.Ben's heart was thudding.  "Georges Chardin," he called out, "we haven'tcome to harm you.  We want to help you and we need your help as well!Please, listen to us!  Hear us out!"From the dark recesses of the apartment emanated a bizarre rasping, ashuddering moan of terror, seemingly involuntary, like the night cry ofa wounded animal.  Still the man remained invisible, cloaked indarkness.  They heard the click of a cartridge sliding into the chamberof a shotgun, and each of them raced to opposite ends of the longhallway.Another explosion!  A fusillade of pellets came through the open door,splintering the woodwork in the hall, gouging jagged crevices in theplaster walls.  The air was heavy with the pungent odor of cordite. Theentire hall now looked like a war zone."Listen!"  Ben called out to their unseen adversary.  "We're not firingback, can't you see that?  We're not here to harm you in any way!" Therewas a pause: was the man hiding inside the apartment actually listeningnow?  "We're here to protect you against Sigma!"Silence.The man was listening!  It was the invocation of the name of Sigma, theshibboleth of a long-buried conspiracy thundering in its impact.At that same instant, Ben could see Anna hand-signaling to him.  Shewanted him to stay where he was while she made her own way intoChardin's apartment.  But how?  With a glance, he saw the large doublehung window, saw her silently nudging open its heavy sash, felt a gustof cold air from outside.  She was going to climb out the window, herealized with horror, walk along the narrow exterior ledge until shecame to a window that opened directly into the Frenchman's apartment. Itwas madness\ He was seized with dread.  A stray gust of wind, and shewould fall to her death.  But it was too late for him to say anything toher; she already had the window open and had stepped onto the ledge.Christ Almighty!  he wanted to shout.  Don't do it!Finally a strange, deep baritone voice emerged from the apartment: "Sothis time they send an American.""There's no 'they," Chardin," replied Ben.  "It's just us.""And who are you?"  the voice came back, heavy with skepticism."We're Americans, yes, who have... personal reasons why we need yourhelp.  You see, Sigma killed my brother."Another long silence ensued.  Then: "I am not an idiot.  You wish me tocome out, and then you will trap me, take me alive.  Well, you will nottake me alive!""There are far easier ways, if that's what we wanted to do.  Please, letus in let us speak with you, if only for a minute.  You can keep yourweapon trained on us.""For what purpose do you want to speak with me?""We need your help in defeating them."A pause.  Then a short, sharp bark of derisive laughter.  "In defeatingSigma?  You cannot!  Until just now I thought one could only hide.  Howdid you find me?""Through some damned clever investigative work.  But you have my utmostadmiration: You did a good job covering your tracks, I must say.  Adamned good job.  It's hard to relinquish control of family property. Iunderstand that.  So you used a fictio juris.  Remote agency.  Welldesigned.  But then you've always been a brilliant strategic thinker. Itwasn't for nothing that you got to be Trianon's Directeur General duDepartement des Finance."Another long silence, followed by the scrape of a chair from inside theapartment.  Was Chardin preparing to show his face after all?  Benglanced down the hall apprehensively, saw Anna carefully sliding onefoot after another along the ledge while clinging to the parapet withboth hands.  Her hair blew in the wind.  Then she was out of his line ofsight.He had to distract Chardin, keep him from noticing Anna's appearance athis window.  He had to keep Chardin's attention."What is it you want from me?"  came Chardin's voice.  His tone seemedneutral now.  He was listening; that was the first step."Monsieur Chardin, we have information that could be invaluable to you.We know a great deal about Sigma, about the inheritors, the newgeneration that has seized control.  The only protection for either ofus is in knowledge.""There is no protection against them, you fool!"Ben raised his voice.  "Goddamn it!  Your rationality was oncelegendary.  If you've lost that, Chardin, then they've won anyway! Can'tyou see how unreasonable you're being?"  In a gentler tone, he added,"If you send us away, you'll always wonder what you might have learned.Or perhaps you'll never have the opportunity "Suddenly there was the sound of glass breaking from inside theapartment, followed immediately by a loud crash and a clatter.Had Anna made it through a window into Chardin's apartment safely?  Afew seconds later he heard Anna's voice, loud and clear.  "I've got hisshotgun!  And it's trained on him now."  She obviously spoke forChardin's benefit as well as Ben's.Ben strode toward the open door and entered the still-darkened room. Itwas hard to see anything but shapes; when his eyes adjusted, after a fewseconds, he made out Anna, dimly outlined against a thick curtain,holding the long-barreled gun.And a man in a peculiar, heavy robe with a cowl rose slowly, shakily tohis feet.  He did not appear to be a vigorous man; he was indeed ashut-in.It was plain what had happened.  Anna, plunging through the window, hadleaped onto the long, ungainly shotgun, pinioning it to the floor; theimpact must have knocked him over.For a few moments, all three of them stood in silence.  Chardin'sbreathing was audible heavy, nearly agonal, his face shadowed within hiscowl.Watching carefully to make sure Chardin didn't have another weaponconcealed in the folds of his monk like garment, Ben fumbled for a lightswitch.  When the lights went on, Chardin abruptly turned away from themboth, facing the wall.  Was Chardin reaching for another gun?"Freeze!"  Anna shouted."Use your vaunted powers of reason, Chardin," Ben said.  "If we wantedto kill you, you'd already be dead.  That's obviously not why we'rehere!""Turn and face us," Anna commanded.Chardin was silent for a moment.  "Be careful of what you ask for," herasped."Now, dammit!"Moving as if in slow motion, Chardin complied and when Ben's mindgrasped the reality of what he saw, his stomach heaved and he nearlyretched.  Nor could Anna disguise her shocked intake of breath.  It wasa horror beyond imagining.They were staring into an almost featureless mass of scar tissue, wildlyvarious in texture.  In areas it appeared crenellated, almost scalloped;in other areas, the proud flesh was smooth and nearly shiny, as iflacquered or covered in plastic wrap.  Naked capillaries made the ovalthat had once been his face an angry, beefy red, except wherevaricosities yielded coils of dark purple.  The staring, filmy gray eyeslooked startlingly out of place two large marbles left on a slickblacktop by a careless child.Ben averted his gaze, and then, wrenchingly, forced himself to lookagain.  More details were visible.  Embedded in a horribly webbed andwrinkled central concavity were two nasal openings, higher than thenostrils would once have been.  Below, he made out a mouth that waslittle more than a gash, a wound within a wound."Oh, dear God."  Ben slowly breathed the words."You are surprised?"  Chardin said, the words scarcely appearing to comefrom his wound-like mouth.  It was if he were a ventriloquist's dummy,one designed by a deranged sadist.  A cough-laugh.  "The reports of mydeath were quite accurate, all except for the assertion of death itself."Burned beyond recognition' yes, indeed I was.  I should have perishedin the blaze.  Often I wish that I had.  My survival was a freakaccident.  An enormity.  The worst fate a human being can have.""They tried to kill you," Anna whispered.  "And they failed.""Oh no.  I think that in most respects they quite succeeded," Chardinsaid, and winced: a twitch of dark red muscle around one of hiseyeballs.  It was apparent that the simple act of talking was painful tohim.  He was enunciating with exaggerated precision, but the damagemeant that certain consonants remained blurry.  "A close confidant ofmine had suspicions that they might try to eliminate me.  Talk hadalready begun about dispatching the angeli re belli  He came by mycountry estate too late.  There were ashes, and blackened timber, andcharred ruins everywhere.  And my body, what was left of it, was asblack as any of it.  He thought he could detect a pulse, my friend did.He brought me to a tiny provincial hospital, thirty kilometers away,told them a tale about an overturned kerosene lamp, gave them a falsename.  He was canny.  He understood that if my enemies knew I hadsurvived, they would try again.  Months passed in that tiny clinic.  Ihad burns over ninety-five percent of my body.  I was not expected tolive."  He spoke haltingly but hypnotically: a tale never before spoken.And then he sat down in a tall-backed wooden chair, seemingly depleted."But you survived," Ben said."I did not have the strength to force myself to stop breathing," Chardinsaid.  He paused again, the memory of pain imposing further pain.  "Theywanted to move me to a metropolitan hospital, but of course I would notpermit it.  I was beyond help anyway.  Can you imagine what it is likewhen consciousness itself is nothing other than the consciousness ofpain?""And yet you survived," Ben repeated."The agony was beyond anything our species was meant to endure.  Wounddressings were an ordeal beyond imagining.  The stench of necrotic fleshwas overpowering even to me, and more than one orderly would routinelyvomit upon entering my room.  Then, after the granulation tissue formed,a new horror was in store for me--contracture.  The scars would shrinkand the agony would be rekindled all over again. Even today, the pain Ilive with every moment of every day is of a degree I never experiencedin the whole of my preceding life.  When I had a life.  You cannot lookat me, can you?  No one can.  But then I cannot look at myself, either."Anna spoke, clearly knowing that human contact had to be reestablished."The strength you must have had--it's extraordinary.  No medicaltextbook could ever account for it.  The instinct for survival.  Youemerged from that blaze.  You were saved.  Something inside you foughtfor life.  It had to be for a reason!"Chardin spoke quietly.  "A poet was once asked, If his house were onfire, what would he save?  And he said, I would save the fire.  Withoutfire, nothing is possible."  " His laughter was a low, disconcertingrumble.  "Fire is after all what made civilization possible: but it canequally be an instrument of barbarity."Anna returned the shotgun to Chardin after removing a last shell fromthe chamber.  "We need your help," she said urgently."Do I look like I am in a position to help anyone, I who cannot helpmyself?""If you want to call your enemies to account, we may be your best bet,"Ben said somberly."There is no revenge for something like this.  I did not survive bydrinking the gall of rage."  He withdrew a small plastic atomizer fromthe folds of his robes, and directed a spray of moisture toward hiseyes."For years, you were at the helm of a major petrochemical corporation,Trianon," Ben prompted.  He needed to show Chardin that they had puzzledout the basic situation, needed to enlist him.  "An industry leader, itwas and remains.  You were Emil Menard's lieutenant, the brains behindTrianon's mid century restructuring.  He was a founder of Sigma.  And intime you must have become a principal as well.""Sigma," he repeated in a quavering voice.  "Where it all begins.""And no doubt your genius in accounting helped in the great undertakingof spiriting assets out of the Third Reich.""Eh?  Do you think that was the great project?  That was nothing, anegligible exercise.  The grand project... fe grand projet..."  Hetrailed off.  "That was something of an entirely different order.  Andnothing you are equipped to comprehend.""Try me," Ben said."And divulge the secrets I have spent my life protecting?""You said it yourself: What life?"  Ben took a step toward him, forcingdown his revulsion in order to maintain eye contact.  "What have youleft to lose?""At last you speak truly," Chardin said softly, and his naked eyesseemed to swivel, peering penetratingly at Ben's own eyes.For a long moment he was silent.  And then he began to talk, slowly,mesmerizingly."The story begins before me.  It will continue, no doubt, after me. Butits origins lie in the closing months of the Second World War, when aconsortium of some of the world's most powerful industrialists gatheredin Zurich to determine the course of the postwar world."Ben flashed on the steely-eyed men in the old photograph."They were angry men," Chardin went on, "who caught wind of what theailing Franklin Roosevelt was planning to do--let Stalin know he wouldnot stand in the way of a massive Soviet land grab.  And, of course,it's what he did do before his death.  In effect he was ceding half ofEurope to the Communists!  It was the grossest betrayal!  These businessleaders knew they would be unable to derail the disgraceful U.S.-Sovietbargain at Yalta.  And so they formed a corporation that would be abeachhead, a means to channel vast sums of money into fightingcommunism, strengthening the will of the West.  The next world war hadbegun."Ben looked at Anna, then stared off into space, hypnotized andastonished by Chardin's words."These leaders of capitalism accurately foresaw that the people ofEurope, embittered and sickened by fascism, would, in reaction, turn tothe left.  The soil had been scorched by the Nazis, these industrialistsrealized, and without the massive infusion of resources at key moments,socialism would begin to take root, first in Europe, then throughout theworld.  They saw their mission as preserving, fortifying, the industrialstate.  Which meant, as well, muffling the voices of dissent.  Do theseanxieties seem overstated?  Not so.  These industrialists knew how thependulum of history worked.  And if a fascist regime was followed by asocialist regime, Europe might be truly lost, as they saw it."It was seen as only prudent to enlist certain leading Nazi officials,who knew which way the wind was blowing and were also committed tocombating Stalinism.  And once the syndicate had established itspolitical as well as financial foundations, it began manipulating worldevents, bankrolling political parties as if from behind a curtain. Theywere successful, astonishingly so!  Their money, judiciously targeted,brought to life De Gaulle's Fourth Republic in France, preserved therightist Franco regime in Spain.  In later years, the generals wereplaced in power in Greece, bringing to an end the leftist regime thatthe people had elected.  In Italy, Operation Gladio ensured that acontinual campaign of low-level subversion would cripple the attempt ofleftists to organize and influence national politics.  Plans were drawnup for the paramilitary police, the cambinieri, to take over radio andtelevision stations if necessary.  We had extensive files onpoliticians, unionists, priests.  Ultraright-wing parties everywherewere secretly bolstered from Zurich, so as to make the conservativesseem moderate by contrast.  Elections were controlled, bribes paid,leftist political leaders assassinated and the strings were pulled bythe puppet masters in Zurich, in conditions of absolute secrecy.Politicians such as Senator Joseph McCarthy in the U.S. were funded.Coups were financed throughout Europe and Africa and Asia.  On the left,extremist groups were created, too, to serve as agents provocateur andguarantee popular revulsion toward their cause."This cabal of industrialists and bankers had seen to it that the worldwas made safe for capitalism.  Your President Eisenhower, who warnedabout the rise of the military-industrial complex, saw only the tip ofthe iceberg.  In truth, much of the entire history of the world in thelast half century was scripted by these men in Zurich and theirsuccessors.""Christ!"  Ben interrupted.  "You're talking about...""Yes," Chardin said, nodding his hideous faceless head.  "Their cabalgave birth to the Cold War.  They did.  Or, as perhaps I should say, wedid.  Now do you begin to understand?"Trevor's fingers moved swiftly as he opened his suitcase and assembledthe .50 caliber rifle, a customized version of the BMG AR-15.  It was,in his view, a thing of beauty, a precision-machined sniper weapon withrelatively few moving parts, and a range of up to seventy-four hundredmeters.  At more proximate distances, its penetrative capacities wereastonishing: it could pierce three inches of steel plate, would leave anexit hole in an automobile or hammer off a corner of a building.  Itcould drive through crumbling mortar handily.  The bullet would have aprojection velocity of over three thousand feet per second.  Resting ona bipod, and surmounted by a Leupold Vari-X scope with thermal imaging,the rifle would have the accuracy that he needed.  He smiled as heseated the rifle into the bipod.  He could hardly be considered underequipped for the job at hand.His target, after all, was directly across the street.CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE."It's incredible," Anna said.  "It's ... it's too much to take in!""I have lived with it so long that it is to me a commonplace," Chardinsaid.  "But I recognize the immense upheavals that would ensue if othersrealized that the public history of their times was, in no small part,scripted--and scripted by a cadre of men like me: businessmen,financiers, industrialists, working through their widely dispersedconfederates.  Scripted by Sigma.  The history books would all have tobe rewritten.  Lives of purpose would suddenly seem like nothing morethan the twitching at the end of a marionette's string.  Sigma is astory of how the mighty have fallen, and the fallen become mighty.  Itis a story that must never be told.  Do you understand that?  Never.""But who would be brazen--mad--enough to undertake such a venture?" Benrested his gaze on Chardin's soft brown robes.  Now he understood thephysical necessity of such strange, loose clothing."You must first understand the visionary, triumphalist sense of missionand accomplishment that suffused the mid century corporation," Chardinsaid.  "We had already transformed man's destiny, remember.  My God, theautomobile, the airplane, soon the jet: man could move along the groundat speeds inconceivable to our ancestors--man could fly through theheavens!  Radio waves and sound waves could be used to provide a sixthsense, vision where vision had never been possible.  Computation itselfcould now be automated.  And the breakthroughs in the material scienceswere equally extraordinary--in metallurgy, in plastics, in productiontechniques yielding new forms of rubber and adhesives and textiles, anda hundred other things.  The ordinary landscape of our lives was beingtransformed.  A revolution was taking place in every aspect of modernindustry.""A second industrial revolution," Ben said."A second, a third, a fourth, a fifth," Chardin replied.  "Thepossibilities seemed infinite.  The capabilities of the moderncorporation seemed to be unbounded.  And after the dawn of nuclearscience--my God, what couldn't we achieve if we set our minds to it?There was Vannevar Bush, Lawrence Marshall, and Charles Smith, atRaytheon, doing pioneering work in everything from microwave generationto missile guidance systems to radar surveillance equipment.  So many ofthe discoveries that became ubiquitous in later decades--xerography,microwave technologies, binary computing, solid-state electronics--hadalready been conceived and prototyped at Bell Labs, General Electric,Westinghouse, RCA, IBM, and other corporations.  The material world wassuccumbing to our will.  Why not the political realm as well?""And where were you during all this?"  Ben asked.Chardin eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance.  From the folds ofhis cloak, he withdrew the atomizer, and moistened his eyes again. Hepressed a white handkerchief to the area under his slash-like mouth,which was slick with saliva.  And, haltingly at first, he began tospeak.I was a child--eight years old when the war broke out.  A student at ashabby little provincial school, the Lycee Beaumont, in the city of LyonMy father was a civil engineer with the city, my mother a schoolteacher.I was an only child, and something of a prodigy.  By the time I wastwelve, I was taking courses in applied mathematics at the Ecole NormaleSuperieure de Lyon, the teacher's college.  I had genuine quantitativegifts, and yet the academy held no appeal for me. I wanted somethingelse.  The ozone-scented arcana of number theory held little allure.  Iwanted to affect the real world, the realm of the everyday.  I liedabout my age when I first sought employment in the accounting departmentof Trianon.  Emil Menard was already heralded as a prophet among CEOs, atrue visionary.  A man who had forged a company out of disparate parts,where no one had previously seen any potential for connection.  A manwho realized that by assembling once segmented operations you couldcreate an industrial power infinitely greater than the sum of its parts.To my eyes, as an analyst of capital, Trianon was a masterpiece--theSistine Chapel of corporate design.Within a matter of months, word of my statistical prowess had reachedthe head of the department for which I worked, Monsieur Arteaux.  He wasan older gentleman, a man of few hobbies and a near total devotion toMenard's vision.  Some of my coworkers found me cold, but not MonsieurArteaux.  With us, conversation flowed as if between two sports fans. Wecould discuss the relative advantages of internal capital markets oralternate measurements of equity risk premiums, and do so for hours.Matters that would stupefy most men, but which involved the architectureof capital itself ~rationalizing the decisions of where to invest andreinvest, how risk was best to be apportioned.  Arteaux, who was nearingretirement, put everything on the line by arranging for me to beintroduced to the great man himself, catapulting me over endlessmanagerial layers.  Menard, amused by my obvious youth, asked me a fewcondescending questions.  I replied with rather serious and ratherprovocative responses in truth, responses that verged on rudeness.Arteaux himself was appalled.  And Menard was, so it seems, captivated.An unusual response, but it was, in capsule form, an explanation of hisown greatness.  He told me later that my combination of insolence andthoughtfulness reminded him of no one so much as himself.  A magnificentegotist, he was, but it was an earned egotism.  My own arrogance foreven as a child I was tagged with that attribute was perhaps notunfounded, either.  Humility was a fine thing for men of the cloth.  Butrationality decreed that one be sensible to one's own capabilities.  Ihad considerable expertise in the techniques of valuation.  Whyshouldn't it logically extend to the valuation of oneself?  My ownfather was, I believed, handicapped by a deferential manner; he esteemedhis own gifts too little, and persuaded others to undervalue them inturn.  That would not be my mistake.I became, in a matter of weeks, Menard's personal assistant.  Iaccompanied him absolutely everywhere.  No one knew whether I was anamanuensis or a counselor.  And in truth I moved, smoothly, from playingthe first role to playing the second.  The great man treated me far morelike an adopted son than a paid employee.  I was his only protege, thesole acolyte who seemed worthy of his example.  I would make proposals,sometimes bold ones, occasionally proposals that reversed years ofplanning.  I suggested, for example, that we sell off an oil-explorationdivision that his managers had spent years in developing.  I suggestedmassive investments in still unproven technologies.  Yet when he heededmy advice, he almost invariably found himself pleased by the results.L'ombre de Menard the shadow of Menard became my nickname in the early1950s.  And even as he fought the disease, the lymphoma, that wouldultimately claim his life, he and Trianon came to rely increasingly uponmy judgment.  My ideas were bold, unheard of, seemingly mad and soonwidely mimicked.  Menard studied me as much as I studied him, with bothdetachment and genuine affection.  We were men in whom such qualitiesenjoyed an easy coexistence.Yet for all the privileges he granted me, I had sensed, for a while,that there was one final sanctum to which I had not been granted entry.There were trips he made without explanation, corporate allocations Icould not make sense of and about which he would brook no discussion.Then the day came when he decided that I would be inducted into asociety I knew nothing about, an organization you know as Sigma.I was still Menard's wunderkind, still the corporate prodigy, still inmy early twenties, and utterly unprepared for what I was to see at thefirst meeting I attended.  It was at a chateau in rural Switzerland, amagnificent ancient castle situated on a vast and isolated tract of landowned by one of the principals.  The security there was extraordinary:even the landscaping, the trees and shrubbery surrounding the property,was designed to permit the clandestine arrival and departure of variousindividuals.  So on my first visit, I was in no position to see theothers arrive.  And no form of surveillance equipment could havesurvived the high-intensity blasts of high and low electromagneticpulses, the latest technology in those days.  All items made of metalwere required to be deposited in containers made of dense osmium;otherwise, even a simple wristwatch would have been stopped dead by thepulses.  Menard and I came there in the evening, and were escorteddirectly to our rooms, he to a magnificent suite overlooking a smallglacial lake, I to an adjoining chamber, less grand but exceedinglycomfortable.The meetings began the next morning.  About what was said then, Iactually remember little.  Conversations continued from earlier ones ofwhich I knew nothing it was difficult for a newcomer to orient himself.But I knew the faces of the men around the table, and it was a genuinelysurreal experience, something a fantasist might have tried to stage.Menard was a man who had few peers, with respect to his own wealth, hiscorporate power, or his vision.  But what peers he had were there in theroom.  The heads of two warring, mighty steel conglomerates.  The headof America's leading electrical equipment manufacturers.  Heavyindustry.  Petrochemicals.  Technology.  The men responsible for theso-called American century.  Their counterparts from Europe.  The mostfamous press baron in the world.  The chief executives of wildlydiversified portfolio companies.  Men who, in combination, wieldedcontrol over assets that exceeded the gross domestic product of most ofthe countries in the world put together.My worldview was shattered that day, then and forever.Children, in history classes, are taught the names, the faces ofpolitical and military leaders.  Here is Winston Churchill, here isDwight Eisenhower, here is Franco and De Gaulle, Atlee and Macmillan.These men did matter.  But they were, really, little more thanspokesmen.  They were, in an exalted sense, press secretaries,employees.  And Sigma made sure of it.  The men who truly had theirhands on the levers of power were sitting around that long mahoganytable.  They were the true marionette masters.As the hours passed, and we drank coffee and nibbled on pastries, Irealized what I was witness to: a meeting of the board of directors of amassive single corporation that controlled all other corporations.A board of directors in charge of Western history itself!It was their attitude, their perspective, that stayed with me, far morethan any actual words that were uttered.  For these were professionalmanagers who had no time for useless emotion or irrational sentiments.They believed in the development of productivity, in the promulgation oforder, in the rational concentration of capital They believed, in plainEnglish, that history the very destiny of the human race~ was simply tooimportant to repose in the hands of the masses.  The upheavals of twoworld wars had taught them that.  History had to be managed.  Decisionshad to be made by dispassionate professionals.  And the chaos threatenedby communism the turmoil, the redistribution of wealth it augured, madetheir project a matter of genuine and immediate urgency.  It was apresent danger to be averted, not some Utopian scheme.They assured each other of the need to create a planet where the truespirit of enterprise would ever be safe from the envy and avarice of themasses.  After all, was a world purulent with communism and fascism aworld any of us wished to bequeath to our children?  Modern capitalshowed us the way but the future of the industrial state had to beprotected, sheltered from the storms.  That was the vision.  And thoughthe origins of this vision lay in the global depression that precededthe war, the vision became infinitely more compelling in the wake of thedestruction wreaked by the war itself.I said little that day, not because I was by nature taciturn, butbecause I was quite literally speechless.  I was a pygmy among giants. Iwas a peasant supping with emperors.  I was beside myself, and all thewhile it was the most I could do to maintain a look of dispassion, inemulation of my great mentor.  Those were the first hours I spent in thecompany of Sigma, and my life would never be the same again.  The dailyfodder of the newspapers-- a labor strike here, a party assembly there,an assassination somewhere else--was no longer a record of randomevents. Behind these events could now be discerned a pattern--thecomplex and intricate machinations of a complex and intricate machine.To be sure, the founders, the principals, profited immensely.  Theircorporations, in every instance, thrived, while so many others, notfortunate enough to be part of Sigma, perished.  But the real motivationwas their larger vision: the West had to be united against a common foe,or it would soften and succumb.  And the hardening of its battlementshad to proceed with discretion and prudence.  Too aggressive, too quicka push could trigger a backlash.  Reform had to be tit rated Onedivision focused on assassinations, removing thoughtful voices from theleft.  Another forged--the word is appropriate--the sorts of extremistgroups, the Baader-Meinhofs and Red Brigades, that would be guaranteedto antagonize any moderate sympathizers.The Western world, and much of the rest, would respond to itsministrations, and it would accept the cover stories that accompaniedthem.  In Italy, we created a network of twenty thousand "civiccommittees," channeling money to the Christian Democrats.  The MarshallPlan itself, like so much else, was hammered out by Sigma--very oftenSigma had devised the very language of the acts that would be submittedto, and passed by the American Congress!  All of the European recoveryprograms, economic cooperation agencies, eventually even NATO itselfbecame organs of Sigma, which remained invisible--because it wasubiquitous.  Wheels within wheels--that was the way we worked.  In everytextbook, you find boilerplate about the reconstruction of Europeaccompanied by a photograph of General Marshall.  Yet every detail hadbeen outlined by us, mandated by us, long before.It never crossed anyone's mind that the West had fallen under theadministration of a hidden consortium.  The notion would beinconceivable.  Because if true, it would mean that over half of theplanet was effectively a subsidiary of a single mega corporationSigma.Over time, older moguls died and were replaced with younger proteges.Sigma persisted, metamorphosing where necessary.  We weren't ideologues.We were pragmatists.  Sigma merely sought to remodel the whole of themodern world.  To claim nothing less than the ownership of historyitself.And Sigma succeeded.Trevor Griffiths squinted through the thermal imaging scope.  The heavyroom-darkening drapes were optically opaque, but to the thermal scope,they were a gauzy scrim.  Human figures were hazy green forms, likeblobs of mercury, visibly changing shape as they moved around pillarsand objects of furniture.  The seated figure would be his primarytarget.  The others would move away from the windows, thinkingthemselves safe, and he would destroy them through the wall of brickitself.  One bullet would clear the way; the second would destroy histarget.  The remaining shells would complete the job."If what you're saying is true ..."  Ben began."Men lie, for the most part, in order to save face.  You can see I nolonger have such motivation."  The slit that was Chardin's mouth pulledup at the sides, in what was either a grimace or a smile.  "I warned youthat you were ill-equipped to understand what I had to say. Perhaps,though, you may now understand the situation somewhat more clearly thanbefore.  A great many powerful men everywhere--even today--have reasonto keep the truth buried.  More so than ever, indeed.  For Sigma has,over the past several years, been moving in a new direction.  In part,it was the result of its own successes. Communism was no longer athreat--it seemed pointless to continue to pour billions into theorchestration of civil acts and political forces.  Not when there mightbe a more efficient way of achieving Sigma's objectives.""Sigma's objectives," Ben echoed."Which is to say, stability.  Tamping down dissent, 'disappearing'troublemakers and threats to the industrial state.  When Gorbachevproved troublesome, we arranged his ouster.  When regimes in the PacificRim proved balky, we arranged for an abrupt, massive flight of foreigncapital, plunging their economies into a recession.  When Mexico'sleaders proved less than cooperative, we arranged for a change ingovernment.""My God," Ben said, his mouth dry.  "Listen to what you're saying ...""Oh yes.  A session would be convened, a decision rendered and, shortlythereafter, executed.  We were good at it, frankly--we could play thegovernments of the world like a pipe organ.  Nor did it hurt that Sigmacame to own an immense portfolio of companies, its ownership stakeshidden through various private equity firms.  But a small inner circlecame to believe that, in a new era, the answer wasn't merely to tack tothe latest winds, cope with cyclical crises.  It was to perpetuate astable leadership for the long run.  And so in recent years, one veryspecial project of Sigma's came to the fore.  The prospect of itssuccess would revolutionize the nature of world control.  No longerwould it be about the allocation of funds, the directing of resources.It became, instead, a simple matter of who the 'chosen' would be.  And Ifought this.""You had a falling out with Sigma," Ben said.  "You became a marked man.And yet you kept its secrets.""I say it again: if ever the truth were to get out, about how many ofthe major events of the postwar era were secretly manipulated, scriptedby this cabal, the reaction would be violent.  There would be riots inthe streets.""Why the sudden escalation of activity you're describing something thathas unfolded over a period of decades!"  Ben said."Yes, but we are talking about days," Chardin replied."And you know this?""You wonder that a recluse like me should keep abreast of what is goingon?  You learn how to read the entrails.  You learn, if you want tosurvive.  And then there is precious little else to occupy a shut-in'shours.  Years among their company have taught me to detect signals inwhat would sound to you like static, mere noise."  He gestured towardthe side of his head.  Even through the cowl, Ben could tell that theman's external ear was completely absent, the auditory canal simply ahole within an outgrowth of proud flesh."And this explains the sudden flurry of killings?""It is as I explained: Sigma has, of late, been undergoing one finaltransformation.  A change of management, if you will.""Which you resisted.""Long before most were attuned to it.  Sigma always reserved the rightto 'sanction' any members whose absolute loyalty came into question. Inmy arrogance, I did not realize that my exalted position conferred noprotection.  Quite the contrary.  But the cleansing, the purging of thedissidents, only began in earnest in the last several weeks.  Those whowere perceived as hostile to the new direction along with those whoworked for us were designated as disloyal.  We were called the angeli rebelli rebel angels.  If you recall that the original angeli re belli hadrevolted against God Almighty himself, you grasp the sense of power andentitlement of Sigma's current overlords. Or, shall I say, overlord,since the consortium has come under the direction of one... redoubtableindividual.  In the event, Sigma has run out the clock, so to say.""What clock?  Explain it to me," Ben began.  So many questions crowdedhis mind."We're talking about days," Chardin repeated.  "If that.  What fools youare, coming to me as if knowing the truth could help you anymore. Comingto me when there is no time!  Surely it is already too late.""What are you talking about?""It's why I had assumed you'd been sent, at first.  They know that theyare never more vulnerable than shortly before the final ascendancy.  AsI've told you, now is a time for final mop-ups, for sterilization andautoclaving, for eliminating any evidence that might point to them.""Again, I ask you, why now?"Chardin took out the atomizer and misted his filmy gray eyes again.There came a sudden explosion, bone-jarringly loud, which propelledChardin, in his chair, backward to the floor.  Both Ben and Anna sprangat once to their feet and saw with terror the two-inch round hole thatinstantaneously appeared in the plaster wall opposite, as if somehow putthere by a large-bore drill."Move!"  Anna screamed.Where had this projectile it seemed far too big to be a mere gunshotcome from?  Ben leaped to one side of the room as Anna jumped to theother, and then he whirled around to look at the splayed body of thelegendary financier.  Forcing himself to survey, once more, the horribleravines and crevices of scar tissue, he noticed Chardin's eyes hadrolled back into his head, leaving only the whites visible.A wisp of smoke arose from a charred segment of his cowl, and Benrealized that an immense bullet had passed through Chardin's skull. Thefaceless man the man whose will to survive had enabled him to endureyears of indescribable agony was dead.What had happened?  How?  Ben knew only that if they didn't seek coverimmediately they would be killed next.  But where could they move, howcould they escape an assault when they didn't know where it came from?He saw Anna race to the far side of the room, then swiftly lower herselfto the floor, lying flat, and he did the same.And then came a second explosion, and another round punched through thesolid exterior wall and then through the plaster interior wall.  Ben sawa circle of daylight in the brick wall, saw now that the shots had comefrom outside!Whatever their assailant was firing, the rounds had penetrated the brickwall as if it were a bead curtain.  The last round had come dangerouslyclose to Anna.Nowhere was safe."Oh, my God!"  Anna shouted.  "We've got to get out of here!"Ben whirled and looked out the window.  In a glint of reflectedsunlight, he caught the face of a man in a window directly across thenarrow street.The smooth, unkned skin, the high cheekbones.The assassin at Lenz's villa.  The assassin at the auberge inSwitzerlandThe assassin who had murdered Peter.Stoked by a towering rage, Ben let out a loud shout, of warning, ofdisbelief, of anger.  He and Anna simultaneously raced to theapartment's exit.  Another hole exploded, deafeningly, in the outsidewall; Ben and Anna made a dash to the staircase.  These missiles wouldnot lodge in the flesh, nor sear skin; they would tear through the humanbody like a spear through a spider's web.  Clearly they were designedfor use against armored tanks.  The devastation they had done to the oldbuilding was incredible.Ben ran after Anna, leaping and bounding down the dark stairs, as thevolley of explosions continued, plaster and brick crumbling audiblybehind them.  Finally they staggered down to the small lobby.  "Thisway!"  whispered Anna, racing to an exit that would take them not to therue des Vignoles but to a side street, making it far more difficult forthe assassin to target them.  Emerging from the building, they lookedfrantically about them.Faces all around.  At the corner of the rue des Orteaux, a blond woman,in denim and fake fur.  At first glance, she looked like a hooker, or ajunkie, but there was something about her that struck Ben as off. Again,it was a face he'd seen before.  But where?Suddenly he flashed back to the Bahnhofstrasse.  An expensively dressedblonde, holding shopping bags from an upscale boutique.  The flirtatiousexchange of glances.It was the same woman.  A sentry for the Corporation?  Across the streetfrom her, a male adolescent in a ripped T-shirt and jeans: he, too,looked familiar, although Ben couldn't place him.  My God! Another one?At the opposite end of the street stood a man with ruddy, weatheredcheeks and wheat-field eyebrows.Another familiar face.Three Corporation killers placed strategically around them?Professionals intent on making sure they'd never escape?"We're boxed in," he said to Anna.  "At least one of them's on eitherend of the street."  They froze in place, unsure how or where to movenext.Anna's eyes searched the street, then she replied.  "Listen, Ben.  Yousaid Chardin had chosen this district, this block, for good reason.  Wedon't know what contingency plans he had, what escape routes he'd mappedout in advance, but we know that he must have had something in mind.  Hewas too smart not to have arranged for path redundancy.""Path redundancy?""Follow me."She ran straight toward the very apartment building where the assassinhad taken up his seventh-floor perch.  Ben saw where she was headed."That's insane!"  he protested, but he followed nonetheless."No," Anna replied.  "The base of the building is one place he can'treach."  The alleyway was dark and fetid, the scampering of ratsevidence of the quantities of refuse that had been allowed to accumulatethere.  A locked metal gate blocked off its egress to the rue desHalles."Should we climb?"  Ben looked doubtfully at the top of the gate whosesharp-pointed spear like rods loomed twelve feet above them."Ybw can," Anna said, and unholstered a Clock.  Three carefully aimedblasts, and the chain that locked the gate swung free.  "The guy wasusing a .50 caliber rifle.  There was a flood of them after DesertStorm.  They were a hot commodity, because with the right ammunitionthey could put a hole right through an Iraqi tank.  If you've got one ofthose monsters, a city like this might as well be made out ofcardboard.""Shit.  So what do we do?"  Ben asked."Don't get hit," Anna replied tersely, and she began running, Ben closebehind.Sixty seconds later they found themselves on the rue de Bagnolet infront of La Fleche d'Or restaurant.  Suddenly Ben darted across thestreet.  "Stay with me."A heavyset man was just getting off a Vespa, one of those smallmotorized velocipedes that had achieved nuisance status among Frenchdrivers."Monsieur," Ben said.  "J'ai besoin de votre veto.  Pardonnez-moi, s'ilvous plait."The bear-like man gave him an incredulous look.Ben pointed his gun at him and grabbed the keys.  The owner steppedbackward, cowering, as Ben leaped onto the small vehicle and revved themotor.  "Get on," Ben called out to Anna."You're crazy," she protested.  "We'd be vulnerable to anyone in anautomobile, once we get on the Peripherique.  These things don't go anyfaster than fifty miles an hour.  It's going to be a turkey shoot!""We're not going on the Peripherique," Ben said.  "Or any other road.Climb on!"Bewildered, Anna complied, taking the seat behind Ben on the motorbike.Ben drove the Vespa around the La Fleche d'Or and then, joltingly, downa concrete embankment that led to old railroad tracks.  The restaurant,Anna could now see, was actually built directly over the tracks.Now Ben steered onto the rusted tracks.  They drove through a tunnel,then back into an open stretch.  The Vespa kicked up dust, but thepassage of time had flattened the tracks here into the earth, and theride became smooth and swifter."So what happens when we meet a train?"  Anna shouted, grasping onto himtightly as they rolled over the tracks."There hasn't been a train on these tracks for over half a century.""Aren't we full of surprises.""The product of a misspent youth," Ben shouted back.  "I once messedaround here as a teenager.  We're on a ghost railroad line known as thePetite Cemture, the little belt.  It runs all the way around the city.Phantom tracks.  La Fleche d'Or is actually an old railroad station,built in the nineteenth century.  Connected twenty stations in a looparound ParisNeuilly, Porte Maillot, Clichy, Villette, Charonne, plenty more.  Theautomobile killed it off, but nobody ever reclaimed the belt.  Now it'smostly a long stretch of nothing.  I was thinking some more about whyChardin decided on this particular neighborhood, and then I rememberedthe phantom line.  A useful piece of the past."They passed through another spacious tunnel, then back into the openair."Where are we now?"  Anna asked."Hard to gauge, since you can't see any of the landmarks from here," Bensaid.  "But probably Ford d'Obervillier.  Maybe Simplon.  Way the hellaway.  Central Paris isn't very big, of course.  The whole thing isabout forty square miles.  If we can make our way into the metro andjoin a few hundred thousand Parisians there, we can begin to make ourway to our next appointment."The Flann O'Brien--the bar's name was displayed in coiled neon as wellas painted in curlicued script in the window--was in the firstarrondissement, on the rue Bailleul, near the Louvre-Rivoli stop.  Itwas a dark, beery establishment, with lots of deeply grooved old woodand a dark wood floor that had soaked up sloshes of Guinness for years."We're meeting him at an Irish bar?"  Anna asked.  Her head swiveledaround by something like reflex, as she scanned their surroundings,alert to any sign of threat."Oscar has a sense of humor, what can I say?""And remind me why you're so sure he can be trusted?"Ben turned serious.  "We've got to deal with probabilities, notpossibilities, we're agreed on that.  And so far he's been on the level.What makes Sigma a menace is the fact that it commands the loyalty oftrue believers.  Oscar's too damn greedy to be a believer. Our checkshave always cleared.  I think that counts with Oscar.""The honor of the cynic."Ben shrugged.  "I've got to go with my gut.  I like Oscar, always have.I think he likes me."The din in the Flann O'Brien, even at this hour, was overwhelming, andit took their eyes a while to adjust to the dim lighting.Oscar was tucked away at a banquette toward the back, a diminutivegray-haired man behind an enormous tankard of viscous stout.  Beside thetankard was a neatly folded newspaper, with a half-completed crosswordpuzzle.  He had an amused expression on his face, as if he were about towink Anna soon realized that this was simply his habitual expression andhe greeted the two with a simple wave of the hand."I've been waiting for forty minutes," he said.  He grabbed Ben's handin an affectionate, wrestling clasp.  "Forty tillable minutes."  Heseemed to be savoring the world as it rolled off his tongue."A bit of a holdup at our previous engagement," Ben said tersely."I can imagine."  Oscar nodded at Anna.  "Madame," he said.  "Please,sit."Ben and Anna slid onto the banquette on either side of the smallFrenchman."Madame," he said, turning his full attention to her.  "You are evenmore beautiful than your photograph.""Sorry?"  Anna replied, puzzled."A set of photographs of you was recently wired to my colleagues in laSurete.  Digital image files.  I got a set of them myself.  Came inhandy.""For his work," Ben explained."My artisans," Oscar said.  "So very good and so very expensive."  Hetapped Ben on his forearm."I'd expect nothing less.""Of course, Ben, I can't say your photograph does justice to you either.Those paparazzi, they never find the flattering angle, do they?"Ben's smile faded.  "What are you talking about?""I'm very proud of myself for doing the Herald Tribune crossword puzzle.Not every Frenchman could do it, you'll grant.  I've almost finishedthis one.  All I need now is a fifteen-letter word for aninternationally wanted fugitive from justice."He turned the newspaper over." "Benjamin Hartman' would that do it?"Ben looked at the front page of the Tribune and felt as if he had beenplunged headfirst into ice water.  serial killer sought was theheadline.  Beside it was a low-resolution photograph of him, apparentlytaken from a surveillance camera.  His face was shadowed, the imagegrainy, but it was unmistakably him."Who knew my friend was such a celebrity?"  Oscar said, and turned thepaper over again.  He laughed loudly, and Ben belatedly joined him,realizing it was the only way one escaped notice in a bar filled withdrink fueled merriment.From the next banquette over, he overheard a Frenchman trying to sing"Danny Boy," with uncertain pitch and an only rough approximation of thevowels.  Oh, Danny Boy, ze peeps ze peeps are caaalling."This is a problem," Ben said, his urgent tone belying the soapy grin onhis face.  His eyes darted back to the newspapers.  "This is an EiffelTower--sized problem.""You kill me," Oscar said, slapping Ben on the back as if he had uttereda hilarious joke.  "The only people who say there's no such thing as badpublicity," he said, "have never gotten bad publicity." Then he tugged apackage from beneath the cushion of his seat.  "Take this," he said.It was a white plastic bag with gaudy lettering, from a tourist giftshop somewhere.  / love Paris in the Springtime, it said, with a heartstanding in for the word "love."  It had the kind of stiff plastichandles that snapped shut when pressed together."For us?"  Anna asked doubtfully."No tourist should be without," Oscar said.  His eyes were playful; theywere also intensely serious."Teez I'll be here in sunshine or in shaadow.Oh, Danny boy, I love you sooo.The drunken Frenchman at the next banquette was now joined, in variouskeys, by his three companions.Ben sank lower in his seat, as the full weight of his predicament boreupon him.Oscar punched him in the arm; it looked jocular, but it stung.  "Don'tslink down in your seat," he whispered.  "Don't look furtive, don'tavoid eye contact, and don't try to look inconspicuous.  That's about aseffective as a movie star putting on sunglasses to shop at Fred Segal,to comprends?""Oui," Ben said weakly."Now," Oscar said, "what's that charming American expression you have?"Get the fuck out of here."  "After acquiring a few items at some small side-street stalls, theyreturned to the metro, where they were just another couple of moony-eyedtourists to the casual spectator."We've got to make plans--plans for what the hell to do next," Ben said."Next?  I don't see what choice we have," Anna said.  "Strasser's theone surviving link we know about--a member of Sigma's board ofincorporators who's still alive.  We've got to reach him somehow.""Who says he's still alive?""We can't afford to assume otherwise.""You realize they're going to be watching every airport, every terminal,every gate.""It's occurred to me, yes," Anna replied.  "You're beginning to thinklike a professional.  A real fast learner.""I believe they call this the immersion method."On a long underground journey to one of the banlieues, the downtroddenareas that ringed Paris proper, the two conversed in low voices, makingplans like lovebirds, or fugitives.They got out at the stop at La Courneuve, an old-fashioned working classneighborhood.  It was only a few miles away, but a different world-- aplace of two-story houses and unpretentious shops that sold things touse, not to display.  In the windows of the bistros and conveniencestores, posters for Red Star, the second-division soccer team, wereprominent.  La Courneuve, due north of Paris, wasn't far from Charles DeGaulle airport, but that was not where they'd be heading.Ben pointed to a bright red Audi across the street.  "How about thatone?"Anna shrugged.  "I think we can find something less noticeable."  A fewminutes later, they came across a blue Renault.  The car had a lightcoating of grime, and on the floor inside there were yellow wrappersfrom fast-food meals, and a few cardboard coffee cups."I'll put my money on the owner being home for the night," Ben said.Anna set to work with her rocker pick, and a minute later had the cardoor unlocked.  Disassembling the ignition cylinder on the steeringcolumn took a little more time, but soon the motor roared to life andthe two took off down the street, driving at the legal speed limit.Ten minutes later, they were on the Al highway, enroute to theLilleLesquin airport in Nord-Pas de Calais.  The trip would take hours,and involve risks, but they were calculated ones: auto theft wascommonplace in La Courneuve, and the predictable police response wouldbe to make perfunctory inquiries among the locals known to be involvedin the activity  The matter would almost certainly not be referred tothe Police Nationale, which patrolled the major thoroughfares.They drove in silence for half an hour, lost in their own thoughts.Finally, Anna spoke.  "The whole thing Chardin talked about it's justimpossible to absorb.  Somebody tells you that everything you know aboutmodern history is wrong, upside down.  How can that be?"  Her eyesremained fixed on the road in front of her, and she sounded as utterlydrained as Ben felt."I don't know, Anna.  Things stopped making sense for me that day at theBahnhofplatz."  Ben tried to stave off a profound sense of enervation.The rush of their successful escape had long since given way to a largersense of dread, of terror."A few days ago, I was essentially conducting a homicide investigation,not examining the foundations of the modern age.  Would you believe?"Ben did not directly reply: what reply could there be?  "The homicides,"he said.  He felt a vague unease.  "You said it started with Mailhot inNova Scotia, the man who worked for Charles Highsmith, one of the Sigmafounders.  And then there was Marcel Prosperi, who was himself one ofthe principals.  Rossignol, likewise.""Three points determine a plane," Anna said.  "High-school geometry."Something clicked in Ben's mind.  "Rossignol was alive when you flew offto see him, but dead by the time you arrived, right?""Right, but ""What's the name of the man who gave you the assignment?"She hesitated.  "Alan Bartlett.""And when you'd located Rossignol, in Zurich, you told him, right?""First thing," Anna said.Ben's mouth became dry.  "Yes.  Of course you did.  That's why hebrought you in, in the first place.""What are you talking about?"  She craned her neck and looked at him."Don't you see?  You were the cat's-paw, Anna.  He was using you.""Using me how?"The sequence of events cascaded in Ben's mind.  "Think, dammit!  It'sjust the way you might prepare a bloodhound.  Alan Bartlett first givesyou the scent.  He knows the way you work.  He knew the next thing you'ddemand ...""He knew I'd ask him for the list," Anna said, her voice hollow.  "Isthis possible?  That damned show of reluctance on his part a piece oftheater for my benefit, knowing it would only steel my resolve?  Thesame with the goddamn car in Halifax: maybe he knew a scare like thatwould make me that much keener.""And so you get a list of names.  Names of people connected with Sigma.But not just any names: these are people who are in hiding.  People whomSigma cannot find not without alerting them.  Nobody connected withSigma could possibly reach these people.  Otherwise they would have beendead already""Because ..."  Anna began slowly.  "Because all of the victims wereangeli re belli  The apostates, the dissidents.  People who could nolonger be trusted.""And Chardin told us that Sigma was approaching a delicate transitionalphase a time of maximum vulnerability.  It needed these peopleeliminated.  But you could find somebody like Rossignol preciselybecause you were who you said you were.  You really were trying to savehis life.  And your bona fides could be verified in meticulous detail.Yet you had been unknowingly programmed!""Which is why Bartlett gave me the assignment in the first place," Annasaid, her voice growing steadily louder, a realization dawning.  "Sothat I would locate the remaining angeli re belli  She banged a hand onthe dashboard."Whom Bartlett would then arrange to have killed.  Because Bartlett isworking for Sigma."  He hated himself for the pain that his words had tobe causing her, but everything was now coming into sharp focus."And in effect so was I. Goddamn it to hell!  So was I.""Unwittingly," Ben emphasized.  "As a pawn.  And when you were becomingtoo hard to control, he tried to pull you off the case.  They'd alreadyfound Rossignol, they didn't need you anymore.""Christ!"  Anna said."Of course, it's no more than a theory," Ben said, though he feltcertain he was speaking the truth."A theory, yes.  But it makes too much damned sense."Ben didn't reply.  The demand that reality make sense seemed now anoutlandish luxury.  Chardin's words filled his mind, their meaning ashideous as the face of the man who spoke them.  Wheels within wheelsthat was the way we worked... organs of Sigma, which remainedinvisible... Every detail had been outlined by us... long before... itnever crossed anyone's mind that the West had fallen under theadministration of a hidden consortium.  The notion would be inconceivable.  Because if true, itwould mean that over half the planet was effectively a subsidiary of asingle me ga corporation  Sigma.Another ten minutes of silence elapsed before Ben said flatly, "We'vegot to work out an itinerary."Anna studied the article in the Herald Tribune again.  " "The suspect isbelieved to have used the names Robert Simon and John Freedman in histravels."  So those IDs are blown."How?  Ben recalled Liesl's explanation of how the credit accounts werekept current, how Peter had made the arrangements through her impeccablytrustworthy second cousin.  "Deschner," Ben said tightly. "They musthave gotten to him."  After a moment, he added, "I wonder why theydidn't release my real name.  They've supplied aliases, but not the name"Benjamin Hartman."  ""No, it's the smart thing to do.  Look, they knew you weren't travelingunder your real name.  Bringing your true identity into it might havemuddied the waters.  You'd get your Deerfield English teacher opiningthat the Benny she knew would never do such a thing.  Plus the Swisshave gunshot residue analysis that puts you in the clear--but it's allfiled under Benjamin Hartman.  If you're running a dragnet, it makessense to keep it simple."Near the town of Croisilles, they saw a sign for a motel and pulled intoa modern low-slung concrete building, a style Ben thought of asInternational Ugly."Just one night," Ben said, and counted out several hundred francs."Passport?"  the stone-faced clerk asked."They're in our bags," Ben said apologetically.  "I'll bring them downto you later.""Just one night?""If that," Ben said, giving Anna a theatrically lascivious look. "We'vebeen touring France on our honeymoon."Anna stepped over and put her head on Ben's shoulder.  "This is such abeautiful country," she told the clerk.  "And so sophisticated.  I can'tget over it.""Your honeymoon," the clerk repeated, and, for the first time, smiled."If you don't mind, we're in a hurry," Ben said.  "We've been drivingfor hours.  We need a rest."  He winked.The clerk handed him a key attached to a heavy rubberized weight."Just at the end of the hall.  Room 125.  You need anything, just call."The room was sparsely furnished; the floor was covered with dull,mottled green carpeting and the brashly cherry-scented air freshener didnot conceal the faint, unmistakable smell of mildew.Once the door closed behind them, they emptied the plastic bag Oscar hadgiven them on the bed, along with their other recent purchases. Annapicked up an EU passport.  The photograph was of her, although digitallyaltered in various ways.  Anna said her newly assigned name aloud a fewtimes, trying to get accustomed to the unfamiliar sounds."I still don't see how this is going to work," Ben said."Like your Oscar said, they categorize you before they really look atyou.  It's called profiling.  If you don't belong to the suspect genus,you get a free pass."  Anna took out a tube of lipstick and, lookinginto a mirror, applied it carefully.  She wiped it off a few timesbefore she was confident that she had done it correctly.By then, Ben was already in the bathroom, his hair slick with syrupy,foamy hair dye, which gave off a tarry, ammoniac smell.  Theinstructions said to wait twenty minutes before rinsing.  It alsocautioned against dyeing eyebrows, at the risk of blindness.  Bendecided to take that risk.  With a cotton swab, he applied the thickfluid to his brows, pressing a wad of tissue paper against his eyes toprevent it from dripping down.The twenty minutes felt like two hours.  Finally, he stepped into theshower, blasted himself with water, and opened his eyes only when he wascertain the peroxide had all been washed down the drain.He stepped out of the shower and looked at himself in the mirror.  Hewas a plausible blond."Say hello to David Paine," he said to Anna.She shook her head.  "The hair's too long."  She held up the multi-cutelectric clippers, chrome-clad except for the clear rubberized grip."That's what this baby is for."In another ten minutes, his curls were flushed away, and he was ready toput on the neatly creased U.S. Army fatigues that Oscar Peyaud hadprovided him.  Blond, crew cut, he looked like an officer, consistentwith the insignia, patches, and overseas service bars on his greenuniform coat.  U.S. Army officers wore identifying badges when travelingby air, he knew.  It wasn't an inconspicuous way to travel; but beingconspicuous in the right way could amount to a life-saving distraction."Better make tracks," Anna said.  "The faster we can get out of thiscountry, the safer we'll be.  Time's on their side, not ours."Carrying their belongings with them, the two walked to the end of thehall and stepped out into the parking lot.They tossed Anna's garment bag in the backseat of the blue Renault,along with the white plastic sack that Oscar had given them.  Itcontained the spent bottle of hair dye, and a few other pieces ofgarbage they didn't want to leave behind.  At this point, the smallestdetail could give them away."As I said, we're down to our last card, our last play," Anna said, asthey made their way back on the highway heading north.  "Strasser was afounder.  We've got to find him.""If he's still alive.""Was there any indication either way in Sonnenfeld's file?""I reread it this morning," Ben said.  "No, to be honest.  And Sonnenfeld thought it was entirely possible that Strasser died, maybe evenyears ago.""Or maybe not.""Maybe not.  You're an incurable optimist.  But what makes you thinkwe're not going to get arrested in Buenos Aires?""Hell, like you've said, there were notorious Nazis living there openlyfor decades.  The local police are going to be the least of ourtroubles.""What about Interpol?""That's what I was thinking--they might be able to help us locateStrasser.""Are you crazy?  Talk about going into the lion's den.  They're going tohave your name on some watch list, aren't they?""You obviously don't know anything about the way the Interpol office isrun down there.  Nobody checks IDs.  You are who you claim you are. Notthe most sophisticated operation, let's just say.  You got a betteridea?""Sonnenfeld said Gerhard Lenz's widow may be alive," Ben saidbroodingly.  "Wouldn't she be in a position to know?""Anything's possible.""I'll try to remember that," Ben said.  "You really think we've got ashot at getting out of this country undetected?""There aren't going to be any transatlantic flights at this airport. Butwe can get to some of the European capitals.  I suggest that we bothtravel separately.  There's a decent chance they're looking for a manand a woman traveling together.""Of course," he said.  "I'll go via Madrid; you take Amsterdam."They settled into another silence, less tense and more companionable.From time to time, Ben found his gaze drifted toward Anna.  Despite allthey had been through today, she was extravagantly beautiful.  At onepoint, their glances met; Anna defused the faint awkwardness with acrooked grin."Sorry, I'm still trying to get used to your new Aryan officer look,"she said.Some time later, Anna fished her cell phone out of her handbag andpunched in a number.David Denneen's voice had the tinny, artificial clarity conferred bydecrypted telephony.  "Anna!"  he said.  "Everything O.K.?""David, listen.  You've got to help me--you're the only one I cantrust.""I'm listening.""David, I need whatever you can get me on Josef Strasser.  He was likeMengele's smarter older brother.""I'll do whatever I can," Denneen replied, his voice tentative, baffled."Of course.  But where do you want the material sent?""BA."He understood the abbreviation for Buenos Aires.  "But I can't exactlysend the file care of the embassy, can I?""How about care of the American Express office?"  Anna gave him a nameto use."Right.  Low profile's a good idea down there.""So I hear.  How bad is it?""Great country, great people.  But some long memories.  Watch your backdown there.  Please, Anna.  I'll get right on to it."  And with thatDenneen clicked off.The main border-control security room of the aero port Line-Lesquin wasa drab, windowless interior space, with low acoustic-tiled ceilings, awhite projection screen at one end of the room.  Color photographs ofinternationally sought criminals hung beneath a black-and-white signthat read defense DE fumer.  Nine immigration and border-controlofficials sat on folding chairs of tube metal and beige plastic whiletheir boss, Bruno Pagnol, the director of security, filled them in onthe new advisories of the afternoon.  Marc Sully was one of them, and hetried not to look as bored as he felt.  He had no love for his job, butwasn't eager to lose it, either.Just in the past week, Pagnol reminded them, they had arrested sevenyoung Turkish women arriving from Berlin with illicit cargo in theirbellies: having been recruited as "mules," they had swallowed condomspacked with China White.  Finding the seven was partly a matter of luck,but credit had to go to Jean-Daniel Roux (Roux gave a slit-eyed nod whenthe boss singled him out, pleased but determined not to look it), whowas alert enough to catch the first of them.  The woman had lookedvisibly woozy to him; as they later learned, one of the knotted condomsin her colon had started to leak.  In fact, the woman almost overdosedon the contraband.  In the hospital, they'd retrieved fifteen smallballs, double-wrapped in latex, tied off with fishing line, eachcontaining several grams of extremely pure heroin."How'd they get it out of her?"  one of the officers asked.Marc Sully, sitting in the back, farted audibly.  "Rear extraction," hesaid.The others laughed.The red-faced director of airport security frowned.  He saw nothingfunny.  "The courier nearly died.  These are desperate women.  They'lldo anything.  How much money do you think she was paid?  A thousandfrancs, nothing more, and she almost died for it.  Now she's facing avery long jail sentence.  These women are like walking suitcases. Hidingdrugs in their own shit.  And it's our job to keep that poison out ofthe country.  You want your kids hooked on it?  So some fat-ass Asiancan get rich?  They think they can promenade right past us.  Are yougoing to teach them better?"Marc Sully had been a member of the police aux frontieres for fouryears, and sat through hundreds of briefings just like this one.  Everyyear Pagnol's face got a little redder, his collar a little tighter. Notthat Sully was anyone to talk.  He himself had always a little weight onhim, wasn't ashamed of it.  Bit his nails to the quick, too, had givenup trying to stop.  The boss once told him he looked "sloppy," but whenMarc asked him how, he just shrugged.  So nobody was going to put him ona recruitment poster.Marc knew he wasn't popular with some of his younger colleagues, theones who bathed every single day, afraid of smelling like a human beinginstead of a walking bar of deodorant soap.  They'd walk around withtheir quills of freshly shampooed hair, smiling nicely at the prettierfemale passengers, as if they were going to find dates on the job.  Marcthought they were fools.  It was a dead-end job.  Giving strip searchesmight be a way to get a sniff, especially if you were into third-worldcul, but you weren't going to bring anybody home that way."Now two advisories fresh from la DCPAF."  The Direction centrals de lapolice auxfrontiere was the national bureau that gave them their orders.Pagnol pressed a few switches, and was able to project photographsdirectly from a computer.  "Highest priority.  This one's an American.Mexican ancestry.  She's a professional.  You find her, you be verycareful.  Treat her like a scorpion, right?"Grunts of assent.Sully squinted at the images.  He wouldn't mind giving her a taste ofhis baguette."And here's another one," the security director said.  "White male inhis mid-thirties.  Curly brown hair, green or hazel eyes, approximatelyone and three-quarters meters in height.  Possible serial killer.Another American, they think.  Very dangerous.  There's reason tobelieve he's been in the country today, and that he'll be trying to makehis way out.  We'll be posting photographs at your stations, but I wantyou to take a careful look right now.  If it turns out that they leftthrough Line-Lesquin and that the people here let them slip through, itwon't just be my job on the line.  Everybody understand?"Sully nodded with everyone else.  It annoyed Sully that Roux, thatapple-cheeked hard-on, was still riding high for having lucked out withthat Gastarbeiter whore.  But who knew?  Maybe it was Sully's day to getlucky.  He took another look at the photographs.Ben dropped off Anna by an airport shuttle bus stop, and deposited theblue Renault at the long-term parking lot at the aero port LilleLesquin.They'd enter the airport separately, and taken different flights.They agreed to meet in Buenos Aires within ten hours.Assuming nothing went wrong.Anna looked at the blond, crew-cut American officer, and felt confidentthat he'd elude detection.  But despite her brave words to Ben, she feltno such confidence herself.  Her hair was neither cut nor colored.  Itwas combed out, and she had changed her garb, but otherwise she wasentrusting her camouflage to something very small indeed.  She felt aknot of fear in the pit of her stomach, and the fear fed on itself, forshe knew nothing would betray her faster than the appearance of fear.She had to focus.  Her usual hyper attentiveness to her surroundingscould now be her undoing. Before she stepped into the terminal, she hadto let every bit of fear and anxiety wash from her.  She imaginedherself traipsing through meadows filled with Bermuda grass anddandelions.  She imagined holding hands with somebody constant andstrong.  It could be anybody--it was simply a mental exercise, as shewas perfectly aware--but the person she kept imagining was Ben.Sully kept a sharp eye out at the incoming passengers by his station,alert for signs of anxiety or agitation, for customers traveling withtoo few bags or too many, for customers who fit the description they'dreceived from DCPAF.The man, third from the front of the line, caught his attention.  He wasthe approximate height of the man they were looking for, had curly brownhair, and kept jingling the change in his pocket, a nervous tic. Fromhis dress, he was almost certainly an American.  Perhaps he had reasonto be nervous.He waited until the man showed his ticket and passport to the airlinesecurity officer, and then stepped forward."Just a few questions, sir," Sully said, his eyes boring in on him."Yeah, all right," the man said."Come with me," Sully said, and drew him to a station post near theticket counter.  "So what took you to France?""Medical conference.""You're a doctor?"A sigh.  "I work in sales for a pharmaceutical company.""You're a drug dealer!"  Sully smiled, though his eyes remained wary."In a matter of speaking," the man replied wanly.  He had a look on hisface like he'd smelled something bad.Americans and their obsession with hygiene.  Sully scrutinized his facefor a moment longer.  The man had the same angular cast to his face,square chin, curly hair.  But the features didn't look quite right--theywere too small.  And Sully didn't hear real stress in the man's voicewhen he answered questions.  Sully was wasting his time."O.K.," he said.  "Have a good trip."Sully went back to scrutinizing the check-in line.  A blond-haired womanwith swarthy skin caught his eye.  The suspect could have dyed her hair;the other specifics matched.  He drifted toward her."Could I see your passport, madame," he said.The woman looked at him blankly."Votre passe port s'il vous plait, madame.""Bien stir.  Vous me croyez etre anglaise?  Je suis italienne, mais tousmes amis pen sent que je suis allemande ou anglaise ou n'importe quoi."According to her passport, she resided in Milan, and Sully thought itunlikely that an American could speak French with such an egregiousItalian accent.No one else on line just then looked terribly promising.  A dot-headwith two bawling children was ahead of the blond Italian.  As far asSully was concerned, her kind couldn't leave the country fast enough.Chicken vindaloo was going to end up being the national dish at the ratethe goddamn dot-heads were immigrating.  The Muslims were worse, ofcourse, but the dot-heads with their unpronounceable names were prettyawful.  Last year, when he'd dislocated his arm, the Indian doctor atthe clinic had flatly refused to give him a real painkiller. Like maybehe was supposed to do some fakir-style mind control.  If his arm wasn'thalf out of its socket, he would have punched the guy.Sully glanced at the woman's passport without interest and waved her andher sniveling brood through.  The dot-head whore even smelled likesaffron.A young Russian with acne.  Last name was German, so probably a Jew.Mafiya?  Not his problem just now.An honest-to-goodness Frenchman and his wife, off to a vacation.Another goddamn dot-head in a said.  Gayatri was the name, and thensomething unpronounceable.  Curry cut.None of the other men fit the profile: too old, too fat, too young, tooshort.Too bad.  Maybe it wasn't going to be his lucky day after all.Anna settled into her coach-class seat, adjusting her said and mentallyrepeating her name: Gayatri Chandragupta.  It wouldn't do to stumbleover it if anyone were to ask.  She was wearing her long black hairstraight back, and when she'd caught a glimpse of her reflection in awindow, she hardly recognized herself.CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.Buenos AiresAnna looked anxiously through the plate glass of the American Expressoffice at sedate, tree-lined Plaza Libertador General San Martin.  Thepark, once a bull ring, once a slave market, was now dominated by thegreat bronze statue of General Jose de San Martin astride his horse. Thesun blazed fiercely.  Inside it was air-conditioned, ice-cold, andquiet."Senorita Acampo?"She turned to see a slender man in a close-fitting blue blazer, stylishheavy black-framed glasses.  "I am very sorry, senorita, but we cannotlocate this package.""I don't understand."  She switched to Spanish so there would be nomistake: "Esta registrado que lo recibio?""We received it, yes, madam, but it cannot be found."Maddening, but this at least was progress.  The last employee hadadamantly denied a package had ever been received in her name."Are you saying it's lost?"A quick reflexive shrug like a nervous tic.  "Our computers show it wassent from Washington, D.C."  and received here yesterday, but afterthat, I cannot say.  If you'll fill out this form, we'll begin a searchthroughout our system.  If it's not located, you're entitled to fullreplacement value."Damn it!  It seemed unlikely to her that the envelope had been lost.More likely it had been stolen.  But by whom?  And why?  Who knew whatwas inside?  Who knew to look?  Had Denneen given her up?  She couldscarcely credit it.  Possibly his phone was tapped, unknown to him.  Intruth, there were too many potential explanations, and none of themchanged the basic fact: if it had been stolen, whoever had done it nowknew who she was--and why she was here.The office of Interpol Argentina is located within the headquarters ofthe Policia Federal Argentina on Suipacha.  Interpol's man in BuenosAires was Miguel Antonio Peralta, the Jefe Secaon Operaaones.  A plaqueon his door read subcomisario departamento interpol.  He was a roundshouldered, bulky man with a large, round head.  Strands of black hairmatted across the top of his pate advertised his baldness instead ofdisguising it.His wood-veneered office was jammed with tributes to Interpol's work.Plaques and commemorative plates from grateful police forces around theworld crowded the walls, along with crucifixes and diplomas and imagesof saints and a framed apostolic benediction on his family from the Popehimself.  An antique silver-framed sepia photograph of his policemanfather was almost as prominent.Peralta's lizard eyes were sleepy behind his perfectly roundtortoiseshell glasses.  A holstered pistol sat atop his gleaming baredesk, the leather holster old but lovingly cared for.  He was genial andflawlessly courteous.  "You know we are always eager to help in thecause of justice," he said."And as my assistant explained, we at CBS find ourselves in a rathercompetitive situation right now," Anna said.  "The people at Datelineare apparently on the verge of locating and exposing this man.  If theyreach him first, so be it.  But I didn't get where I am today by being apushover.  I'm working with an Argentine field producer who thinks wecan get the story, with a little assistance from you.""In Argentina, football--soccer, I think you say--is our national sport.I gather network TV plays that role in the States.""You could say that."  Anna rewarded him with a wide smile, and crossedher legs.  "And I'm not at all putting down my colleagues at Dateline.But we both know what sort of story they'll do, because it'll be thesame old tune.  Argentina as a backward country that harbors these bad,bad people.  They'll do something very exploitative, very cheap.  We'renot like that.  What we have in mind is much more sophisticated and Ithink much more accurate.  We want to capture the new Argentina.  Aplace where people like yourself have been seeing that justice is done.A place with modern law enforcement, yet respect for democracy"--shewiggled a hand vaguely--"and like that."  Another wide smile.  "Andcertainly your efforts would be handsomely compensated with aconsultant's fee.  So, Mr.  Peralta.  Can we work together?"Peralta's smile was thin.  "Certainly if you have proof that JosefStrasser is living in Buenos Aires, you must only to tell me.  Producethe evidence."  He jabbed the air with a silver Cross pen to emphasizehow simple it all was.  "That is all.""Mr.  Peralta.  Someone is going to do this story, whether it's my teamor the competition."  Anna's smile faded.  "The only question is how thestory will be done.  Whether it's a story of one of your successes, orone of your failures.  Come on, you must have a file of leads onStrasser some sort of indication that he's here," Anna said.  "I mean,you don't doubt he's living in Buenos Aires, do you?"Peralta leaned back in his chair, which squeaked.  "Ms.  Reyes," hesaid, his tone that of a man with a delicious piece of gossip to impart,"a few years ago my office received a credible tip from a woman livingin Belgrano, one of our wealthiest suburbs.  She had seen Alois Brunner,the SS Hauptsturmfuhrer, on the street, coming out of a neighboringhouse.  Immediately we have a round-the-clock surveillance on this man'shouse.  Indeed she was correct, the old man's face matched our filephotos of Brunner.  We moved in on the gentleman. Indignant, he producedhis old German passport, you know, imprinted with the eagles of theThird Reich and a big J, for (ew.  The man's name was Katz."  Peraltacame forward in his chair until he was upright again. "So how do youapologize to a man like this, who had been in the camps?""Yes," Anna agreed equably, "that must have been terribly embarrassing.But our intelligence on Strasser is solid.  Dateline is filming theirsecond-unit footage background shots even as we speak.  They must bevery confident.""Dateline, 60 Minutes, 20/20 I am familiar with these investigativeprograms.  If you people were so very sure Josef Strasser was, as youAmericans like to say, alive and living in Argentina, you would havefound him long ago, no?"  His lizard eyes were fixed on her.She could not tell him the truth that her interest was not in his Nazipast, but in what he may have been involved in when he parted companywith his Fuhrer, and joined forces with the invisible architects of thepostwar era.  "Then where would you suggest I begin looking?""Impossible to answer!  If we knew there was a war criminal living here,we would arrest him.  But I must tell you, there are no more." Hedropped his pen onto his desk definitively."Really."  She made some meaningless marks on her yellow pad."Times have changed in Argentina.  The bad old days, when a JosefMengele could live openly here, under his own name, they are gone. Thedays of the Per6n dictatorship are over.  Now Argentina is a democracy.Josef Schwammberger was extradited.  Erich Priebke was extradited.  Icannot even recall the last time we arrested a Nazi here."She crossed out her doodle with a slash of her pen.  "What aboutimmigration records?  Records of people who entered the country in theforties and fifties?"He frowned.  "Maybe there are records of entries, arrivals.  TheNational Registry, the Migrations Department--it is index cards,everything entered by hand.  But our coastline is thousands ofkilometers long.  Who knows how many tugboats and rowboats and fishingtrawlers landed decades ago at one of the hundreds of estancias--theranches--and were never detected?  Hundreds of kilometers of coastlinein Patagonia, no one is there to see."He again jabbed the air.  "And then in 1949, Perdn issued a blanketamnesty for anyone who had entered the country under a false name.  Soit is unlikely there will be any immigration record of Josef Strassereven if he really is here.  Maybe you can go down to Bariloche, the skiresort, and ask around.  The Germans love Bariloche.  It reminds them oftheir beloved Bavaria.  But I would not hold out much hope.  I amterribly sorry to disappoint you."Anna Navarro was not gone from Miguel Antonio Peralta's office twominutes before the Interpol man picked up his telephone.  "Mauricio," hesaid.  "I've just had a most interesting visitor."In a modern office building in Vienna, a bland-looking middle-aged manwatched without interest as the plasterboard walls that had enclosed acarpeted "reception area" and "conference room" were dismantled andwheeled away toward a freight elevator by a team of constructionworkers.  Next came a Formica conference table, a plain metal desk, andassorted office equipment including a dummy telephone system and aworking computer.The bespectacled man was an American who for the last decade or so hadbeen engaged to perform a variety of services around the world, thesignificance of which was invariably obscure to him.  He had never evenmet the company's chief, had no idea who he was.  All he knew was thatthe mysterious head of the firm was a business associate of thisbuilding's owner, whb'd been happy to lend use of the eleventh floor.It was like watching a stage set being struck.  "Hey," called out thebespectacled American, "someone's gotta take down the sign in the lobby.And leave that U.S. seal with me, will ya?  We might need it again."New YorkDr.  Walter Reisinger, the former Secretary of State, took the call inthe back of his limousine as it inched through morning rush-hour trafficon Manhattan's East Side.Dr.  Reisinger disliked the telephone, which was unfortunate, sincethese days he spent virtually every waking moment on the phone.  Hisinternational consulting firm, Reisinger Associates, was keeping himeven busier than his days at State.Secretly he had been afraid that, after retiring from the government andwriting his memoirs, he'd be gradually marginalized, treated as aneminence grise, invited to appear on Nightline once in a while, and towrite the occasional thumb-sucker for the New York Times Op-Ed page.Instead, he had become more famous, and certainly far richer.  He foundhimself globe-hopping more now than during his shuttle diplomacy days inthe Middle East.He pressed the speaker button.  "Yes?""Dr.  Reisinger," said the voice on the other end of the phone, "this isMr.  Holland.""Ah, good morning, Mr.  Holland," Reisinger said jovially.  The two menchatted for a minute or so, and then Reisinger said, "This shouldn't bea problem.  I have good friends in just about every government in theworld--but I think the most direct route would be to go right toInterpol.  Do you know its Secretary-General?  A most interesting man.Let me give him a call."Patient Eighteen lay on a hospital bed with his eyes closed, an IVfeeding tube in his left arm.  He was shaking, as he had done constantlysince the treatments began.  He was also nauseated, and periodicallyretchedinto a bedpan placed beside the bed.  A nurse and a technician stoodwatching nearby.A doctor, whose name was Lofquist, came into the examination room andwent up to the nurse.  "How is the fever?"  he asked.  They spoke inEnglish, because his English was still better than his German, evenafter working here in the clinic for seven years."It hasn't broken," the nurse replied tensely."And the nausea?""He's been vomiting regularly."Dr.  Lofquist raised his voice to address Patient Eighteen.  "How're youfeeling?"The patient moaned.  "My god damned eyes hurt.""Yes, that's normal," Dr.  Lofquist said.  "Your body is trying to fightit off.  We see this all the time."Patient Eighteen gagged, leaned over to the bedpan, and was sick.  Thenurse wiped his mouth and chin with a damp washcloth."The first week is always the most difficult," Dr.  Lofquist saidcheerily.  "You're doing wonderfully well."CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.Our Lady of Mercy, Nuestra Senora de la Merced, was an Italian atebasilica perched on the swarming Cane Defensa, across from adisconcertingly contemporary branch office of the Banco de Galicia. Thechurch's granite facade was crumbling, A wrought-iron fence enclosed aforecourt paved with worn and cracked black-and-white harlequin stonetiles, where a Gypsy mother and her brood begged for alms.Ben watched the mother in her jeans, black hair tied back, sitting onthe steps against the ruins of a column's pedestal, kids spilling out ofher lap and at her feet.  Deeper into the courtyard an old man in coatand tie dozed, one arm locked in a crutch, the top of his bald patetanned.At one-fifteen exactly, as instructed, Ben entered the church's foyer,and walked through swinging wooden doors into the loamy darkness of thenarthex, which smelled of beeswax candles and sweat.  The interior, oncehis eyes accustomed to the dark, was immense, daunting, and shabby.  TheRomanesque ceilings were high and vaulted, the floor paved with ancientencaustic tiles, beautifully inlaid.  A priest's singsong Latin chant,electronically amplified, echoed in the cavern, and the congregantsresponded dutifully.  Call and response.  All rise.One o'clock weekday Mass and it was, impressively, almost half full. Butthen Argentina is a Catholic country, Ben thought.  Here and there thetrilling of cell phones.  He oriented himself, spotted the chapel on theright.A few rows of benches were arrayed before a glassed-in tabernaclecontaining the bloodied figure of Christ and bearing the words humilidadY paciencia.  To its left, another statue of Jesus, this one in theopen, beneath the words sag rado co razon en vos conf io  Ben sat on thefront bench, also as instructed, and waited.A priest in his vestments sat praying by a bottle-blond young woman inminiskirt and high heels.  The swinging doors squeaked and slammed, andwhen they opened, the throaty blare of a motorcycle intruded. Each timeBen turned to look: Which one was it?  A businessman with a cell phoneentered the narthex, crossed himself, then turned into the alcove --wasit him?--but then touched the figure of Jesus, closed his eyes, andprayed.  More unison chanting, more electronically amplified Latin, andstill Ben waited.He was afraid but determined not to show it.A few hours earlier he'd dialed a number he'd pilfered from Sonnenfeld'sfiles, one that had, so it appeared, once belonged to Lenz's widow.It still did.The woman obviously wasn't in hiding, but she hadn't come to the phoneherself.  A brusque, hostile baritone answered: her son, he'd said.Lenz's brother?  Half brother?Ben had identified himself as a trusts-and-estates lawyer from New York,come to Buenos Aires to settle a huge bequest.  No, he could notidentify the deceased.  He would only say that Vera Lenz had been left agood deal of money, but he would first have to meet with her.A long silence ensued while the son decided what to do.  Ben interjectedone more piece of irrelevant-seeming information, which probably turnedout to be the deciding one.  "I've just come from Austria," he said.  Nonames, no mention of her son--nothing specific to hang on to or objectto.  Less said the better."I don't know you," the son at last replied."Nor I you," Ben came back smoothly.  "If this is inconvenient for youor for your mother ...""No," he said hastily.  He would meet Ben--"Mr.  Johnson"--at a church,in a certain chapel, a certain bench.Now he sat with his back to the entrance, turning with each squeak ofthe doors, each gust of noise from the outside.Half an hour went by.Was this a setup?  The priest looked at him, wordlessly offered a coupleof beeswax candles to light.  "No, thanks," Ben said, turning back tothe door.A group of tourists with cameras and green guides.  He turned back toJesus in his display case and saw the priest move close to him.  He wasswarthy, tall, and strong-looking, fiftyish, balding, barrel-chested.He spoke to Ben in a hushed baritone.  "Come with me, Mr.  Johnson."Ben rose, followed him out of the chapel and down the nave, then a sharpright across an empty row to a narrow passage that ran parallel to thenave, along a stone wall, until they were almost at the apse.A small, almost concealed wooden door.  The priest opened it.  The roomwas pitch-black, dank and musty.  The priest flicked a switch and a wanyellow light illuminated what appeared to be a dressing room.  Acoatrack with priestly garb.  A few scuffed wooden chairs.The priest was pointing a gun.Ben felt a jolt of fear."Do you have anything on you?"  the priest asked with unexpectedcourtesy.  "Weapon of any kind, any electronic devices?"Fear gave way to anger.  "Just my cell phone, if you consider that adeadly weapon.""May I have it, please?"Ben handed it over.  The priest ran his free hand down the front andback of Ben's suit jacket, beneath the shoulders, at the waist, the legsand ankles.  A swift and expert frisking.  He then examined the cellphone carefully and returned it to Ben."I need to see your passport, some form of identification."Ben produced his Michael Johnson passport and slipped out a businesscard as well.  Earlier in the morning he had taken the precaution ofstopping at a printing-and-copy shop on Avenue 9 de Julio and orderingfifty of them, surcharge for rush.  An hour later he hadplausible-looking cards for Michael Johnson, partner in a fictionalManhattan law firm.The priest examined it."Look," Ben said, summoning high dudgeon, "I really don't have time forthis.  And put the damn gun away."Ignoring his request, the priest indicated the exit.  "This way."He pulled the door open to the dazzling sun, a tiny courtyard, and thesliding side doors of a windowless black van."Please."  A wave of the gun barrel.  He meant: into the van."Sorry," Ben said.  So this was the widow's son?  He could scarcelycredit it: he didn't look anything like Jorgen, who would have to be hishalf brother at least.  "Nothing doing."The priest's eyes blazed.  "Then you are, of course, free to go.  But ifyou wish to see my mother you must go my way."  His tone softened. "Yousee, people still come to Buenos Aires to talk to her. Journalistssometimes, but sometimes also bounty hunters, crazy people with guns.Maybe agents from the Mossad.  They used to threaten her to make hertell where is Lenz.  For a long time people did not believe he was dead.Like with Mengele, they thought he made a trick.  Now I will not let hersee anyone she does not know unless I clear it.""You say "Lenz' he's not your father?"A scowl.  "My father married Lenz's widow.  But she has outlived bothhusbands.  A strong woman.  I take care of her.  Please, get in."Everything is a chance.  He had not come this far to back out now. Thisman could finally lead him to the truth.  After studying the enigmaticpriest for a moment, he climbed into the back of the van.The priest slid the doors closed with the rumble of thunder.  Now theonly illumination came from a dim roof light.  Except for pull-downseats the van was entirely empty.Everything is a chance.Ben wondered: What have I done?The engine started up, then protested all the way into first gear.This is how they execute people, Ben thought.  I don't know this man,genuine priest or not.  Maybe he's from one of those groups Sonnenfeldmentioned who defend and protect the old Nazis.After some twenty minutes, the van came to a halt.  Its doors slid open,revealing a cobblestone street in dappled light that filtered through acanopy of trees.  The length of the journey told him they were still inBuenos Aires, but the street looked entirely different from the city hehad seen so far.  It was serene and quiet but for birdsong.  And, justbarely audible, piano music.No, I'm not about to be killed.He wondered what Anna would think.  No doubt she'd be appalled at therisk he'd taken.  And she'd be right.They were parked in front of a two-story brick house with a roof ofbarrel tiles, not particularly large, but graceful.  Wooden shutters onall the windows were closed.  The piano music seemed to be coming fromwithin the house, a Mozart sonata.  A tall, serpentine wrought-ironfence enclosed the house and its small patch of yard.The priest took Ben by the elbow and helped him out of the van.  Eitherhis gun was now concealed or, less likely, it had been left in the van.At the front gate he keyed a code into a number pad, unlocking the gatewith an electrical buzz.Inside, the house was cool and dark.  The Mozart recording was comingfrom a room straight ahead.  A note was bungled, the passage begunagain, and Ben realized that this was no recording; someone was playingthe piano with great skill.  The old woman?He followed the priest into the room from which the piano musicemanated.  It was a small sitting room, book-lined, Oriental carpets onthe floor.  A tiny, birdlike old woman was hunched over a Steinwaygrand.  She did not seem to notice when they entered.  They sat down ona coarse, uncomfortable couch and waited in silence.When the piece was finished, she kept her hands frozen in the air,poised over the keys, then brought them slowly to her lap.  Theaffectations of a concert pianist.  Slowly she turned.  Her face wasprune-like, her eyes sunken, her neck crepey.  She had to be ninety.Ben clapped a few times.She spoke in a quavering, hoarse small voice.  "jQuien es este?""Mother, this is Mr.  Johnson," the priest said.  "Mr.  Johnson, mystepmother."Ben went over to her and took her fragile hand.The priest continued, to Ben, "And I am Francisco.""Pongame en una silla cdtnoda," the old woman said.Francisco put an arm around his stepmother and helped her into a chair.She said in decent English, "You come from Austria?""I was just in Vienna, yes.""Why have you come?"Ben began to speak, but she interrupted, fearful, "You are from thecompany?"The company?  Did she mean Sigma?  If so, he had to make her talk."Frau ... Frau Lenz, I'm afraid I've come here under false pretenses."Francisco swiveled his head toward Ben, furious.  "I'll kill you!""You see, Jorgen Lenz asked me to see you," Ben said, ignoring him.  Heoffered no explanation.  Mention Austria, suggest that he had gained thetrust of (urgen Lenz.  If pressed, he would improvise.  He was gettinggood at that.  "He asked me to meet with you and warn you to beespecially careful, to tell you that your life may be in danger.""I am not Frau Lenz," she said haughtily.  "I have not been Lenz forover thirty years.  I am Senora Acosta.""My apologies, senora."But the old woman's hauteur had given way to fear.  "Why does Lenz sendyou?  What does he want?""Senora Acosta," Ben began, "I've been asked--""Why?"  she asked, raising her quavering voice.  "Why?  You come herefrom Semmering?  We've done nothing wrong!  We've done nothing to breakthe agreement!  Leave us alone!""No!  Silence, Mother!"  the priest shouted.What was she referring to?  The agreement... Was this what Peter hadstumbled on to?"Senor Acosta, your son specifically asked me--""My son?"  the old woman rasped."That's right.""You say my son in Vienna?""Yes.  Your son Jorgen."The priest rose.  "Who are you?"  he asked."Tell him, Francisco," the old woman said.  "Francisco is my stepson.From my second marriage.  I never had any children."  Her face wascontorted with fear.  "/ have no son."The priest loomed menacingly over Ben.  "You're a liar," he snapped."You say you're a lawyer for an estate, and now you lie to us again!"Head reeling, Ben attempted a quick recovery.  "You have no son?  ThenI'm glad I'm here.  Now I see I haven't wasted my time, or my firm'smoney, in coming down here to Buenos Aires."The priest glowered.  "Who sent you here?""He is not from the company!"  his stepmother croaked."This is exactly the sort of fraud I need to clear up," Ben said,feigning a sense of triumph.  "So this Jurgen Lenz of Vienna--he says heis your son, but he is not your son?  Then who is he?"The priest turned to his stepmother, who looked as if she were about tospeak.  "Say nothing!"  he ordered.  "Do not answer him!""I cannot talk about him!"  the old woman said.  To her stepson, sheadded, "Why does he ask me about Lenz?  Why do you invite him here?""He is a liar, an impostor!"  the priest said.  "Vienna would send wordahead first before sending a messenger!"  He reached behind him andproduced his revolver, aiming it directly at Ben's forehead."What kind of a priest are you?"  Ben asked in a hush.  Not a priest. Apriest would not put a gun to my head."I'm a man of God who protects my family.  Now leave here at once."A sudden thought occurred to Ben, the obvious explanation, and he saidto the old woman, "Your husband had another family.  A son with anotherwife.""You're not welcome in this house," the priest said with a wave of hisweapon.  "Out.""Gerhard Lenz had no children!"  the old woman cried."Silence!"  the priest thundered.  "Enough!  Say nothing more!""He pretends to be the son of Gerhard Lenz," Ben said, half to himself."Why in the world would he pretend to be the son of... a monster?""Stand up!"  the priest commanded."Gerhard Lenz didn't die here, did he?"  Ben said."What are you saying?"  the stepmother gasped."If you don't get out of here, I'll kill you," the priest said.Ben rose obediently, but looked at the old woman, sunk deep within hereasy chair.  "The rumors were true, then," he said.  "Gerhard Lenzwasn't buried in Chacarita cemetery in 1961, was he?  He escaped fromBuenos Aires, evaded his pursuers ""He died here!"  the old woman said frantically.  "There was a funeral!I myself flung dirt on his coffin!""But you never saw his body, did you?"  Ben said."Out!"  the priest barked."Why is he saying these things to me?"  she cried.She was interrupted by the ring of the telephone on a sideboard behindthe priest.  Without moving his revolver he reached to his right andsnatched up the receiver.  "Si?"He seemed to be listening intently.  Ben took advantage of the priest'smomentary inattention to sidle ever so subtly in the priest's direction."I need to reach Josef Strasser," he said to the old woman.She spat out her reply, "If you're really sent from Austria, you knowhow to reach him.  You're a liar!"Then Strasser was alive!Ben inched closer to the priest and continued talking to the stepmother."I myself was lied to set up!"  There was in fact no logic in what hesaid, not without a fuller explanation, but he wanted only to confusethe old woman, rattle her further."That confirms it," the priest said, hanging up the phone.  "That wasVienna.  This man's a fraud."  He looked at Ben.  "You lied to us, Mr.Hartman!"  he said, glancing behind him for an instant, and Benimmediately lunged.  He grabbed the priest's right wrist, the oneholding the gun, twisting it with all his strength, and at the same timeslammed his other hand into the priest's throat, forefinger and thumb ina rigid V. The old woman screamed with terror.  Caught by surprise, thepriest cried out in pain.  The revolver fell from his hand and clatteredto the floor.With one immense movement Ben forced the priest to the floor, closinghis grip around the priest's neck.  He could feel the bony cartilage ofthe larynx shift to one side.  The man's cry grew strangled as hesprawled against the tiled floor, his head at an unnatural angle, tryingto rear up, trying to reach his free, left hand around, but it was visedbeneath his rib cage.  He struggled with great strength, gasping forbreath.  The old woman flung the backs of her hands against her face ina strange protective gesture.The gun!  Must get the gun!Ben jammed his left hand more forcefully into the man's throat, andthrust a knee into his stomach, aiming for the solar plexus.  Thepriest's sudden, involuntary exhalation of breath told Ben that he'd hitthe mark.  The priest's dark eyes rolled upward so that only the whiteswere showing.  He was momentarily paralyzed by the blow.  Ben snatchedthe revolver from the floor, swung it around, and shoved it against theman's forehead.He cocked the trigger.  "Make a move, and you're dead!"Immediately the priest's body fell slack.  "No!"  he choked out."Answer my questions!  Tell the truth if you want to live!""Don't, please don't!  I'm a man of God.""Right," Ben snapped disdainfully.  "How do I reach Josef Strasser?""He is I don't know please my throat!"Ben eased the pressure a bit, enough to allow him to breathe and tospeak.  "Where's Strasser?"  he thundered.The priest gulped air.  "Strasser I don't know how to reach Strasser helives in Buenos Aires, that's all I know!"  A small rivulet of urineappeared on the floor between the man's legs."Bullshit!"  Ben shouted.  "You give me an address or a phone number, oryour stepmother will have no one to take care of her!""No, please!"  the old widow said, still cowering in her chair."If if you kill me," the priest gasped, "you won't get out of BuenosAires alive!  They'll track you down they'll do things you'll wish wishyou were dead!""Strasser's address!""I don't have it!"  the priest said.  "Please!  I have no way to reachStrasser!""Don't lie," Ben said.  "You all know each other.  You are all tiedtogether in a network.  If you had to reach Strasser you have ways.""I'm nothing!  You kill me, I'm nothing to them!  They'll find you!"Ben wondered, who were "they"?  Instead, he asked: "Who's Jorgen Lenz?"He pressed the barrel of the gun against the priest's forehead.  Therewere a few drops of blood; he had broken the skin."He--please, he's powerful, he controls--he owns her house, herproperty, the man who calls himself Jurgen Lenz--""Then who is he really?""Put the gun down and get away from him."The voice--low, calm, Spanish-accented--came from the doorway behindBen.  A tall man stood there holding a sawed-off shotgun.  He wasdressed in heavy green slacks and a denim work shirt, and he looked tobe in his late twenties or early thirties, broad-chested and powerful."Roberta, help!"  the widow cried.  "Save my Francisco!  Get this manout of here at once!""Senora, should I kill this intruder?"  Roberto asked.The man's demeanor told Ben he would fire without remorse.  Benhesitated, unsure what to do.  The priest was a hostage, with therevolver to his forehead, yet Ben knew he could not bring himself topull the trigger.  And even if he did, the man with the sawed-offshotgun would kill him in the blink of an eye.But I can still bluff, he realized."Roberto!"  the old woman croaked.  "Now!""Put the gun down or I'll fire," said the young man.  "I don't care whathappens to this scumbag."  He indicated the priest."Yes, but the senora does," Ben said.  "We will lower our weapons at thesame time.""All right," the young man agreed.  "Take the weapon away from his head,stand up, and get out of here.  If you want to live."  He lowered theshotgun's barrel, pointing it toward the floor, as Ben pulled therevolver away from the priest's forehead.  He got up slowly, the gunstill lowered."Now move toward the door," the man said.Ben backed away, his right hand gripping the revolver, his left pattingthe air behind him, feeling for obstacles as he moved.  The young manmoved with him into the hall, his rifle still lowered."I just want you out of this house," the man said calmly.  "If you evercome near this house again, you'll be killed on sight."  The priest hadsullenly raised himself to a sitting position, looking drained andhumiliated.  Ben backed out of the open door--either the priest had leftit open or Roberto had entered this way--and then pulled it shut.In a few seconds he was running.Anna paid the cabdriver and entered the small hotel, located on a quietstreet in the district of Buenos Aires called La Recoleta.  It was not,she thought uneasily, the sort of place where a single young womantraveling alone would easily go unnoticed.The concierge greeted her by name, which disturbed her.  Earlier in theday she and Ben had checked in, separately and several hours apart.They'd also called in their reservations separately and at differenttimes.  Staying in the same hotel made logistical sense, but it alsoincreased certain risks.The chambermaid's cart was parked outside her room.  Inconvenient.  Shewanted to be alone, go over the files, make phone calls; now she'd haveto wait.  As she entered she saw the maid, hunched over her opensuitcase.Taking files out of Anna's leather portfolio.Anna stopped abruptly.  The maid looked up, saw Anna, and dropped thefiles and portfolio back into the suitcase."What the hell are you doing?"  Anna said, advancing on her.The maid protested indignantly in Spanish, a mix of haughty denials.Anna followed her out into the hall, demanding to know what she wasdoing.  "Eh, ^que haces?  jVen para oca!  jQu cuernos hdces revisandotni valija?"Anna tried to read the woman's name tag, but the woman suddenly bolted,running down the corridor at top speed.The maid hadn't been just pilfering.  She had been going through Anna'spapers.  Whether she read English or not was beside the point; mostlikely she had been hired to steal any documents, papers, files, notes.But hired by whom?Who could possibly know Anna was here, or what she was investigating?She was being watched but by whom?Who knows I'm here?  Denneen, yes, but had he told someone, someassociate?Had Peralta, the Interpol representative, figured out who she was?  Wasthat possible?Just as she reached for the bedside phone, it rang.  The manager,calling to apologize?  Or Ben?She picked it up.  "Hello?"There was only dead air.  No, not dead air: it was the familiar hiss ofa surveillance tape.  Then the sounds of faint, indistinct voices,becoming sharper, amplified.A surge of adrenaline.  "Who is this?"She made out a voice: "What about immigration records?  Records ofpeople who entered the country in the forties and fifties?"  It was herown voice.  Then the voice of a male interlocutor.  Peralta.On the telephone, someone was playing back a tape recording of theconversation between Peralta and herself.They had heard everything, and they whoever "they" were knew preciselywhere she was and what she was after.She sat on the edge of the bed, stunned and terrified.  Now there couldbe no question her presence was known, despite all the precautions. Thepilfering maid was no isolated player.The phone rang again.Prickly all over with terror, she snatched up the receiver.  "Yes?""We want to capture the new Argentina.  A place where people likeyourself have been seeing that justice is done.  A place with modern lawenforcement, yet respect for democracy..."  Her own voice, tinnily butcrisply rendered through whatever eavesdropping equipment had been inplace.A click.In her haste, she had left the room door open; she ran to close it.  Noone was in the corridor.  She shut the door, double-locked it, seatedthe slide bolt of the safety chain in its socket.She ran to the window, its heavy drapes open, realizing she was exposed,a target for a shooter stationed in a window of any of the tallbuildings across the street.  She yanked the drapes closed to block theline of sight.The phone rang again.She walked to it slowly, put the handset to her ear, said nothing."I didn't get to be where I am today by being a pushover...""Keep calling," she finally forced herself to say into the phone,feigning calm.  "We're tracing the calls."But no one was listening.  There was only the dull hiss of asurveillance recording.She depressed the phone's plunger and, before it could ring again,called down to the front desk.  "I've been getting obscene calls," shesaid in English."Obscene ... ?"  the switchboard operator repeated, not comprehending."Amenazas," she said.  "Palabrotas.""Oh, I'm very sorry, senorita, would you like me to call the police?""I want you to hold all calls.""Yes, ma'am, certainly."She brooded for a minute, then retrieved a slip of paper from her purse,torn from a notepad in the Schiphol departure lounge.  On it she hadscrawled the phone number of a local private investigator that Denneenhad recommended.  Someone reliable, highly skilled, well connected withthe authorities, but entirely honest, Denneen had assured her.She punched out the number, let it ring and ring.An answering machine came on.  Sergio Machado identified himself and hisagency.  After the beep, she left her name and number, mentionedDenneen's name.  Then she called the hotel switchboard operator againand told her she would accept a call only from a Sergio Machado.She needed someone knowledgeable and resourceful and most of alltrustworthy.  You couldn't hope to get anywhere, learn anything, withoutsomeone like that, unless you had a reliable contact in the governmentalbureaucracy, and that she did not have.She went to the bathroom, splashed her face at the sink, first coldwater, then hot.  The telephone rang.Thickly, in a stupor, she walked to the bedside table.The phone rang again, then again.She stood over the phone, stared at it, considered what to do.She picked it up.Said nothing, waited.There was silence."Hello?"  a male voice said finally.  "Is anyone there?"Quietly, mouth dry, she said: "Yes?""Is this Anna Navarro?""Who's this?"  She tried to keep her tone neutral."It's Sergio Machado you just called me?  I went out to get the mail,now I'm returning your call."Relieved, she sighed, "Oh, God, I'm sorry.  I've just been getting abunch of obscene calls.  I thought it might be the caller again.""What do you mean, obscene calls like heavy breathing, that sort ofthing?""No.  Nothing like that.  It's too complicated to get into.""You in some kind of trouble?""No.  Yes.  I don't know, probably.  Anyway, listen, thanks for callingback.  David Denneen thought you might be able to help me.""Sure, you want to get a cup of coffee?  Not like the shit you drink inAmerica.  Real coffee,""Yeah, sure, I'd like that."  Already the anxiety was beginning to ebb.They agreed to meet early that evening in front of a cafe restaurant nottoo far from his office.  "I'll do what I can," he said.  "I can'tpromise anything more than that.""That's good enough for me," she said.She hung up and stood over the phone for a moment, looking at it as ifit were some alien life-form that had invaded the room.Ben and she would have to change hotels.  Perhaps she had been followedfrom her visit with Peralta.  Perhaps she had been followed from theairport.  But her location and her mission were known: that was the realmessage of those calls.  She knew better than to take them as anythingother than threats.A knock at the door.Adrenaline propelled her to a position beside it.  The safety chain wassecurely looped from the slide bolt in the door plate to the doorjamb.The door could not be opened with just a key.Could it?There was no peephole."Who is it?"  she said.The voice that replied was male, familiar.  She never would have thoughtshe'd be so glad to hear it."It's Ben," the voice said."Thank God," she muttered.CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.He was bedraggled, shirt and tie askew, hair wild."What's with the door chain?"  he said.  "You used to live in East NewYork, too?"She stared.  "What happened to you?"After they'd each recounted the events of the last few hours, she said,"We have to get out of here.""Damn right," Ben said.  "There's a hotel downtown, in the centra-sortof a fleabag, but supposed to be kind of charming.  Run by Britishexpatriates.  The Sphinx."  He'd bought a South America guide at theairport.  He thumbed through it, found the entry.  "Here we go.  We caneither show up or call from the street, on my cell phone.  Not fromhere."She nodded.  "Maybe we should stay in the same room this time.  Husbandand wife.""You're the expert," he said.  Was there a glint of amusement in hiseyes?She explained: "They're going to call around looking for an American manand woman traveling together but staying in separate rooms.  How long doyou think it'll take them to locate us?""You're probably right.  Listen--I have something."  He produced afolded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket."What's that?""A fax."  "From?""My researcher in New York.  It's the names of the board of directors ofArmakon AG of Vienna.  Owners of that little biotech startup inPhiladelphia that made the poison that killed the old men."He handed it to her.  "Jorgen Lenz," she breathed."One of the directors.  Is that an intriguing coincidence or what?"Once again, Arliss Dupree returned to the paperwork in front of him andonce again he found it impossible to focus.  It was a long reportprepared by the deputy director of the Executive Officer for U.S.Trustees, which oversees bankruptcy estates; the report detailedallegations of corruption involving the federal bankruptcy courts.Dupree read the same sentence three times before he set it aside and gothimself another cup of the near-rancid coffee produced by the sputteringmachine down the hall.He had other things on his mind that was the trouble.  The developmentsinvolving Agent Navarro were annoying.  Worse than annoying.  Theyspelled major aggravation.  He didn't give a damn what happened to her.But if she'd been guilty of security breaches, it reflected badly onhim.  Which was totally unfair.  And he couldn't help thinking that itall started with that goddamn liver-spotted spook at the InternalCompliance Unit, Alan Bartlett.  Whatever the hell that was about.Several times he'd made inquiries proper, interdepartmental inquiriesand each time he had been rebuffed.  As if he had some lowly custodialcapacity at the Office of Special Investigations.  As if the OSI itselfweren't worthy of a civil word.  Whenever Dupree thought about it fortoo long, he had to loosen his tie.  It was galling.First that bitch Navarro was cherry-picked from his team to gogallivanting off God only knew where.  Next thing, word came down thatshe was rotten, had been selling off information to traffickers andhostiles and whoever else.  If so, she was Typhoid Mary, which he keptcoming back to it was bad news for the person she'd reported to, namely,Arliss Dupree.  If Dupree had any sense of which way the wind wasblowing and his career was based on his having that sense a shit stormwas coming his way.And he was damned if his career was going to be dented by Navarro'smisconduct or since the charges mostly sounded like bullshit to him byBartlett's double-dealing.  Dupree was, above all, a survivor.Sometimes surviving meant that you took the bull by the goddamn horns.Dupree had friends of his own friends who would tell him stuff he neededto know.  And maybe paying a visit on the Ghost might help concentratethe old guy's mind.  Bartlett looked like a god damned vapor trail, buthe was a major power in the department, a mini J. Edgar Hoover.  Dupreewould have to deal with him carefully.  Even so, Bartlett had to learnthat Dupree wasn't somebody to mess with.  The Ghost spent his daysdirecting investigations into his colleagues; when was the last timeanybody looked into what he was up to?Dupree tore open a couple of envelopes of sugar and dumped it into hiscoffee.  It still tasted foul, but he slurped it down anyway.  He had alot of work ahead of him.  With any luck at all, Alan Bartlett would begetting a dose of his own medicine.The rooms at the Sphinx were large and light-filled.  There was onedouble bed, which they each glanced at warily, deferring any decisionson sleeping arrangements until later."What I still don't understand," she said, "is how anyone knew I washere and why.""The Interpol man--""Except that I saw him after the package was stolen from AmericanExpress."  She was standing by the tall windows, fiddling with thesheer, gauzy curtains.  "Once the package was stolen, the bad guys knewI was looking for Strasser.  Question is, how did anyone even know totake it?  You didn't tell anyone you were traveling to Buenos Aires withme, right?"He didn't like her implication, but he ignored it.  "No.  But did youmake any phone calls from the hotel?"She was silent a moment.  "Yeah, I did.  One to Washington.""Not hard to tap hotel phones if you have the proper contacts, right?"She looked at him, visibly impressed.  "That might also explain the fakeCIA man.  Yes.  Did you give Jorgen Lenz any indication--""I never told Lenz I was even thinking of going to Buenos Aires, becauseat that point I wasn't.""I wish there was a way to get Lenz's fingerprints, run 'em through abunch of databases, see what we turn up.  Maybe there's even a criminalrecord.  Did he give you anything--a business card, anything?""Nothing, as far as I can recall--well, actually, I gave him thephotograph to look at, the one I got from Peter's bank vault in Zurich.""How many people have you shown it to?""You.  A historian at the University of Zurich.  Liesl.  And Lenz.That's all.""He handled it?""Oh yeah.  Front and back, turned it over.  His fingers were all overit.""Great, I'll have a copy made and send the original off to APIS.""How?  I get the impression your DO) privileges have been revoked.""But Denneen's haven't.  If I can get it to him, he can pass it along toa friend in another agency, probably FBI.  He'll figure it out."He hesitated.  "Well, if it enables us to get something on Lenz.  Or tofind Peter's killers...""Excellent.  Thank you."  She glanced at her watch.  "Let's continuethis over supper.  We're meeting this detective, Sergio whatever, in apart of the city called La Boca.  We can grab something to eat there."The cabdriver was a middle-aged woman with flabby arms, wearing a tanktop.  On the dashboard was a framed color photo of a child, presumablyher own.  A tiny leather moccasin dangled from the rearview mirror."A gun-toting priest," Anna mused.  "And I thought the Dominican nuns inchurch were scary."  She'd changed into a gray pleated skirt and whiteblouse, a pearl choker around her swan neck, and smelled of somethingfloral and crisp.  "He told you that Jurgen Lenz actually owns herhouse?""Actually, he used the phrase, 'the man who calls himself Jurgen Lenz.""They entered a seedy working-class barrio on the southernmost tip ofBuenos Aires.  On their left was the Riachuelo Canal, a stagnant body ofwater in which rusting dredges and scows and hulks were half submerged.Along the waterway were warehouses and meat packing plants."She told you Gerhard Lenz had no children?"  Anna's brows were knit inconcentration.  "Am I missing something?""Uh-uh.  He's Lenz, yet he's not Lenz.""So the man you met in Vienna, who everyone knows as Jurgen Lenz, is animpostor.""That would be the implication.""Yet whoever he really is, this old woman and her stepson obviously fearhim.""No question about it.""But why in the world would Jurgen Lenz pretend to be the son of someoneso infamous if he's not?"  she said.  "It makes no sense.""We're not talking about an Elvis impersonator here, granted.  The thingis, we don't really understand much about how succession works at Sigma.Maybe it was his way of gaining a foothold there.  Representing himselfas the direct descendant of one of the founders--that might have beenthe only way he could worm his way in.""That's assuming that Jurgen Lenz is Sigma.""At this point, it seems safer than assuming the contrary.  And, goingfrom what Chardin said, the question with Sigma isn't what they control,but what they don't control."Darkness had settled.  They were entering an area that was crowded, illlit, dangerous-seeming.  The houses here were constructed of sheetmetal, with corrugated metal roofs, painted pink and ocher andturquoise.The cab pulled up in front of a restaurant-bar bustling with rowdypatrons at creaky wooden tables or gathered at the bar, talking andlaughing.  Prominently displayed behind the bar was a color portrait ofEva Peron.  Ceiling fans turned slowly.They ordered empanadas and a San Telmo cabernet sauvignon and a bottleof agua mineral gaseosa.  The wineglasses had the per spirant smell ofold sponge.  The napkins were slick squares of deli paper."The widow thought you were from "Semmering,"" Anna said when they weresettled.  "What do you think she meant--a place?  A company?""I don't know.  A place, I suppose.""And when she mentioned 'the company'?""I took that to be Sigma.""But there's another company.  Jurgen Lenz--whoever he really is--is onthe Armakon board.""How much are you going to trust this Machado guy with what we know?""Not at all," she replied.  "I simply want him to find Strasser for us."They finished with a couple of humitas, creamy sweet-corn paste incornhusk packets, and coffee."I assume the Interpol guy wasn't much help," Ben said."He denied the possibility that Strasser might live here.  Highlysuspicious.  Interpol was controlled by the Nazis for a time, justbefore the Second World War, and some people think it never reallypurged itself.  It wouldn't surprise me at all if this guy's in thepocket of one of these Nazi protection rackets.  Now, your gun-totingpriest ""My gun-toting priest insisted he had no way to reach Strasser, but Idon't believe him.""I'll bet he got on the phone to Strasser the moment you were out thedoor."Ben reflected.  "If he called Strasser ... What if we could somehow getthe widow's telephone records?""We can ask Machado.  He may be able to do it, or know who to reach outto.""Speaking of reaching out, do you know what this guy looks like?""No, but we're meeting him right in front."The street was crowded and raucous and electric rock music blaring fromspeakers set out on sidewalks, an opera's aria, tango music from anearby cantina.  Portenos strolled down the cobblestones of theCaminito, a pedestrian thoroughfare, browsing at the stalls of anopen-air market.  People came in and out of the restaurant, repeatedlycolliding with Ben and Anna without apology.Ben noticed a gaggle of young boys in their late teens or earlytwenties, a roving gang of eight or more toughs, heading toward him andAnna, talking loudly, laughing, drunk on alcohol and testosterone. Annamuttered something to Ben out of the side of her mouth, something hecouldn't quite understand.  Several of the guys were staring directly athim and Anna with something more than idle curiosity, and in an instantthe gang surrounded them."Run!"  he shouted, and he was slugged in the stomach by a fist.He protected his abdomen with both arms, as something slammed into hisleft kidney a foot!  and he lunged forward to ward off the attack.  Heheard Anna scream, but it seemed to come from a great distance.  He wasblocked, hemmed in; his assailants, though evidently teenagers, seemedto be trained in combat.  He couldn't move, and he was being pummeled.In his peripheral vision he could see Anna flinging one of the attackersaside with surprising strength, but then several more grabbed her.  Bentried to break free, but was overwhelmed by a barrage of fists andkicks.He saw the glint of knife blades, and a knife slashed against his side.A hot line of sensation exploded into vast pain, and he grabbed the handholding the knife, twisted it hard, and heard a yelp.  He kicked at hisattackers, slammed wildly with his fists, connecting a few times, and hefelt an elbow jabbed into his rib cage, then a knee in his stomach.Breath left him, and he gasped helplessly, then a foot kicked him in thetesticles and he doubled over in pain.He heard the whoop of a siren, and he heard Anna shout, "Over here! Oh,thank God!"  A foot kicked him hard on the side of his head, and hecould taste blood.  He flung his hands out, half protectively, half inan attempt to grab whatever he could, to stop the pummeling; he heardshouting, new voices, and he lurched to his feet to see a couple ofpolicemen shouting at his accosters.One of the cops grabbed him, yelled, "jVamos, vamos par aca, que losvamos a sacar de acd!"  Come on, get over here, we'll get you out ofhere!  Another cop pulled Anna toward the cruiser.  Somehow he made itto the police car, saw the door open, felt a shove, and he was inside.The door slammed behind him, and all the shouts and screams of the crowdwere muted."You all right?"  one of the cops said from the front seat.Ben groaned.Anna said, "Gracias!"  Ben noticed that her blouse was torn, her pearlchoker was gone.  "We're American ..."  she began, then seemed to thinkfor a moment.  "My purse," she said.  "Shit.  My money was in there.""Passport?"  Ben managed to croak out."Back in the room."  The car was moving.  She turned to him.  "My God,what was that?  You O.K."  Ben?""I'm not sure."  The screaming pain in his groin was beginning tosubside.  There was a sticky warmth where he'd been slashed by theknife.  He touched his side, felt the blood.The car swung into traffic, barreling down the road.  "That was norandom attack," Anna said.  "That was deliberate.  Planned,coordinated."Ben looked at her dully.  "Thank you," he said to the policemen in thefront seat.There was no reply.  He realized that there was a Plexiglas barrierbetween the front and back seats, and he heard Anna say, "The partition?"The Plexiglas had not been there before; it had just come up.  Ben didnot hear a police radio, or maybe the sound wasn't coming through thePlexiglas.Anna seemed to notice the same thing at the same moment, for she leanedforward and banged on the Plexiglas, but the two policemen didn'trespond.The back doors locked automatically."Oh, my God," Anna breathed.  "They're not cops."They pulled at the door handles, which did not yield.  They grabbed atthe door lock buttons, but they would not move."Where's your gun?"  Ben whispered."I don't have one!"Headlights flashed by as the car accelerated down a four-lane highway.They were now clearly outside the city limits.  Ben hammered at thePlexiglas partition with both fists, but neither the driver nor thepassenger in the front seat seemed to notice.The car swerved onto an exit ramp.  In a few minutes they were on adark, two-lane road, lined with tall trees, and then without warningthey turned off the road into an unlit cul-de-sac within a copse of talltrees.The engine was switched off.  For a moment there was silence,interrupted only by the sound of an occasional car passing by.The two men in the front seat seemed to be conferring.  Then thepassenger got out and went around to the back of the car.  The trunkpopped open.In a moment he returned to his side of the car, clutching in his lefthand something that looked like a piece of cloth.  In his right he helda handgun.  Then the driver got out, taking a gun from a shoulderholster.  The back doors unlocked.The driver, apparently in charge, yanked open the door on Anna's sideand waved the gun at her.  She got out slowly, put her hands up.  Hestepped back and, with his free left hand, slammed the car door shut,leaving Ben alone in the backseat.The deserted country road, the weapons ... this was a classic execution.The other false policeman--or perhaps they were real ones; did it makeany difference?--walked to where Anna stood, her hands in the air, andbegan frisking her for weapons, beginning with her underarms. His handslingered on her breasts.He ran his hands down her side, moving them into her crotch, his fingersspending too much time there as well, then moved down the inside of herlegs to her ankles.  He pulled back, seemed to determine her safe.  Thenhe took a burlap sack and placed it over her head, tightening it aroundher neck.The driver barked something, and she fell to her knees and clasped herhands behind her back.Ben saw with horror what was about to happen to her.  "No!"The driver shouted another order, and the younger cop opened the cardoor, pointing his weapon at Ben.  "Step out slowly," he said in fluentEnglish.There was no hope of making a dash for the road, nor of grabbing Annaand taking her to safety.  Not faced with two men with guns.  He got outof the car, thrust his hands in the air, and the younger one beganfrisking him too, this time more roughly."No esta enfierrado," the man said.  He's clean.To Ben, he said conversationally, "Any sudden movements and we'll killyou.  Understand?"Yes, I understand.  They'll kill us both.A burlap sack went over his head.  It stank of a horse barn, and wascinched tight at his neck, too tight, choking him.  Everything was dark.He croaked, "Hey, watch it!""Shut the hell up," one of the men said.  It sounded like the olderman's voice.  "Or I kill you and no one find your body for days, hearme?"He heard Anna whisper, "Go along with them for now.  We don't exactlyhave a choice."He felt something hard pressed against the back of his head.  "Kneel," avoice said.He knelt, and without being asked, he clasped his hands behind his back."What do you want?"  Ben said."Shut the hell up!"  one of them shouted.  Something hard crackedagainst the back of his head.  He groaned in pain.His abductors didn't want to talk.  They were going to die in thisgodforsaken field off a dark road in the middle of a country he didn'tknow.  He was thinking of how it all began, at the Bahnhofplatz inZurich, with his near-death, or did it really begin with Peter'sdisappearance?  He recalled the agony of Peter's murder in the countryinn in rural Switzerland, but instead of demoralizing him, the memorygave him resolve.  If he were killed here, at least he would have thesatisfaction of knowing that he had done everything he could to find hisbrother's murderers, and if he had failed to bring them to justice, orto discover what their reasons were, at least he had come close.  Hewould leave behind no wife, no child, and in time he would be mostlyforgotten by his friends, but in the history of the world all our livesare as brief as the winking of a firefly on a summer night, and he wouldnot feel sorry for himself.He thought of his father, wherever he'd vanished to, and regretted onlythat he'd never know the entire truth about the man.Out of the darkness came a sudden voice.  The older man."Now you answer some questions.  What the hell you want with JosefStrasser?"So they wanted to talk after all.These goons were protecting Strasser.He waited for Anna to speak first, and when she didn't, he said, "I'm anattorney.  An American lawyer.  I'm probating an estate that means I'mtrying to get him some money that's been left to him."Something cracked hard against the side of his head."I want the truth, not your bullshit!""I'm telling you the truth."  Ben's voice was shaky.  "Leave this womanout of it she's just my girlfriend.  She's got nothing to do with it. Idragged her along, she'd never been to Buenos Aires ""Shut up!"  one of them bellowed.  Something slammed into his rightkidney, and he tumbled to the ground, his face inside the burlap flatagainst the dirt.  The pain was so acute he could not even groan.  Thencame a blinding pain as something cracked into the side of his face,perhaps a foot, and he smelled and tasted blood.  Everything wasbleached out.He screamed, "Stop!  What do you want?  I'll tell you what you want!"He hunched forward, brought his hands around to protect his face,gasping from the unfathomable pain, and he felt blood seeping from hismouth.  He braced himself for the next blow, but for a moment nothinghappened.Then came the voice of the older one, quiet and matter-of-fact, as ifmaking a reasonable point in a pleasant conversation.  "The woman is not'just' your girlfriend.  She is Agent Anna Navarro, and she is on thepayroll of the United States Justice Department.  This we know. You, wewant to know about.""I'm helping her," he managed to get out, cringing, and it came, a swiftblow to the other side of his head.  A lightning bolt of pain piercedhis eyes.  The pain was so great now, so constant and overwhelming, thathe thought he could not possibly survive it.Then a pause, a momentary intermission in the torture session, and therewas silence, the men seemingly waiting for him to speak again.But Ben's mind was sluggish.  Who where were these men from?  The mancalled Jtirgen Lenz?  Sigma itself?  Their methods seemed too homespunfor that.  The Kamaradenwerk?  That was more plausible.  What answerwould satisfy them, end the beatings, forestall the execution?Anna spoke.  His ears were plugged, probably with blood, and he couldbarely hear what she said.  "If you're protecting Strasser," she said ina voice that was surprisingly steady, "you'll want to know what I'mdoing here.  I've come to Buenos Aires to warn him not to seek hisextradition."One of the men laughed, but she kept speaking.  Her voice seemed so faraway.  "Do you know that a number of Strasser's comrades have beenmurdered in the last few weeks?"There was no response.  "We have information that Strasser is about tobe killed.  The U.S. Justice Department has no interest in trying toseize him, or we'd have done it long ago.  Whatever terrible things he'sdone, he's not wanted for war crimes.  I'm trying to keep him from beingmurdered, so I can talk to him.""Liar!"  one of the men screamed.  There was a thud, and Anna cried out."Stop!"  she shouted, her voice cracking.  "There are ways you can checkthat I'm telling you the truth!  We need to get to Strasser to warn him!If you kill us, you'll be harming dim!""Anna!"  Ben yelled.  He needed to connect with her.  "Anna, you O.K.?Just tell me you're O.K."His throat felt as if it were going to burst.  The exertion of yellingmade his head throb excruciatingly.Silence.  Then her muffled voice: "I'm O.K."It was the last thing he heard before everything vanished.CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.Ben awoke in a bed in a large, unfamiliar room with high ceilings, andtall windows that looked out over a city street he didn't recognize.Evening, traffic noise, twinkling lights.A lanky woman with dark brown hair and brown eyes, in a T-shirt andblack Lycra bicycle shorts, languidly curled in a chair, watching him.Anna.His head throbbed.In a sedate voice, she said, "Hey.""Hey," he said.  "I'm alive."  The nightmarish scene began to come backto him, but he couldn't remember when he lost consciousness.She smiled.  "How1 re you feeling?"He thought about this for a moment.  "Sort of like the guy who fallsfrom the top of a skyscraper, and someone sticks his head out of a tenthfloor window and asks how he's doing, and the guy says, Well, so far I'mfine."Anna chuckled."I have kind of a low-grade headache."  He turned his head from side toside, felt the pain sear and sparkle behind his eyeballs.  "Maybe not solow-grade.""Well, you got bashed up pretty bad.  For a while I thought you mighthave a concussion, but I guess not.  Not from what I can tell."  Shepaused.  "They kicked me around a little, but they seemed to be focusingon you.""Real gentlemen."  He thought a moment, still disoriented.  "How'd I getback here?""I guess they got tired of beating on you, or maybe they got scared whenyou passed out.  At any rate, they brought us back to town, dropped usoff somewhere in La Boca."The only light in the room came from a lamp beside the bed where he lay.He became aware of bandages, on his forehead and side.  "Who did this?""What do you mean who were they?  Or who bandaged you up?""Who fixed me up?""Moi," she said, bowing her head modestly.  "Medical supplies courtesythe Sphinx, mostly peroxide and Betadine.""Thank you."  His thinking was muzzy and slow.  "So who were thoseguys?""Well, we're alive," she said, "so I'm guessing they're local muscle.Pistoleros, they're called, guns for hire.""But the police car...""The Argentine police are famous for corruption.  A lot of themmoonlight as pistol eros  But I don't think they were connected withSigma.  Kamaradenwerk, or something along those lines thugs who look outfor the old Germans.  The local network could have been alerted lots ofways.  My Interpol friend I gave him a fake name, but he might have seenan ID photo.  Maybe it was the stolen package at American Express. Maybeit was my investigator guy, Machado.  Maybe your pistol-packin' priest.But enough questions.  I want you to take it easy."He tried to sit up, felt a pain in his side, lay back down.  Now heremembered being kicked in the stomach, the groin, the kidneys.His eyelids kept drooping, the room going in and out of focus, and soonhe succumbed to sleep.When he awoke again, it was still night, and the room was mostly dark.The only light came from the street, but it was enough to see the shapein bed next to him.  He could smell her faint perfume.  He thought, Nowshe's willing to share a bed.The next time he awoke, the room was bright.  It hurt his eyes to lookaround.  He heard the sound of water running in the bathroom, andstruggled to sit up.Anna emerged in a cloud of steam, wrapped in a bath towel."He's awake," she said.  "How's it feel?""A little better.""Good.  You want me to order some coffee from room service?""They have room service here?""Yeah, you're feeling better," she said with a laugh.  "The old sense ofhumor's starting to come back.""I'm hungry.""Understandable.  We didn't have a chance to eat dinner last night." Sheturned back toward the bathroom.He was in a clean T-shirt and boxer shorts.  "Who changed my clothes?""Me.""My shorts, too?""Mm-hmm.  You were soaked in blood."Well, well, he thought, amused.  Our first moment of intimacy and Islept through it.She began brushing her teeth and reemerged a few minutes later, makeupapplied, wearing a white T-shirt and violet gym shorts."What do you think happened?"  he asked.  His head was beginning toclear.  "You think your call to that private detective, what's-his-name,was intercepted?""Possibly.""From now on we use my digital phone only.  Let's assume even theSphinx's switchboard is tapped."She placed two pillows behind him.  She wore no perfume now but smelledpleasantly of soap and shampoo.  "Mind if I use it now to call our lasthotel?  My friend in Washington thinks I'm staying there, and might betrying to reach me."  She tossed him a copy of the International HeraldTribune.  "You take it easy.  Read, sleep, whatever.""Make sure it's charged.  You might have to plug it in."He leaned back and idly flipped through the pages.  An earthquake in theGujarat state in India.  A California utilities company facing ashareholders' lawsuit.  World leaders set to gather at the InternationalChildren's Health Forum.  He put the paper aside and shut his eyes, butonly to rest.  He'd had enough sleep.  He listened to her talk to thehotel in La Recoleta, her voice lulling.  She had a lively, infectiouslaugh.She appeared to have lost her sharp edge, her defensiveness.  Now sheseemed confident and assured, but without the brittleness.  Maybe it washis weakness that allowed her to be strong.  Maybe she liked to nurture.Maybe it was the shared adventure they had just been through, or hisconcern for her, or maybe it was pity for what had happened to him, ormisplaced guilt.  Maybe it was all these things.She ended the phone conversation.  "Well, this is interesting.""Hmm?"  He opened his eyes.  She was standing beside the bed, her hairtousled, her breasts outlined beneath the white cotton T-shirt.  He feltthe tug of arousal."I got a message from Sergio the private eye, apologizing for beinglate, he was tied up on a case.  Sounds entirely innocent.""Call was intercepted at the hotel, probably.""I'm going to meet him.""Are you crazy?  Haven't you had enough traps for one lifetime?""On my terms.  My arrangement.""Don't.""I know what I'm doing.  I may screw up--I do screw up sometimes-but youknow, I'm actually considered pretty good at what I do.""I don't doubt it.  But you don't do organized crime or drugs, you don'tdo shoot-'em-up stuff.  I think we're both in over our heads."He felt oddly protective of her, even though she was no doubt a farbetter shot than he, more equipped to defend herself.  Yet at the sametime--even more perplexing--he felt safer with her around.She came over and sat on the bed next to him.  He edged over a bit togive her room.  "I appreciate your worrying about me," she said.  "ButI've been trained, and I have been a field agent.""I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply--""No apology necessary.  No offense taken."He stole a quick glance at her.  He wanted to say, My God, you'rebeautiful, but he didn't know how she might take it.  She still seemedpretty defensive.She said, "Are you doing this for your brother or for your father?"The question caught him by surprise.  He hadn't expected such bluntness.And he realized the answer wasn't simple.  "Maybe both," he said."Mostly for Peter, of course.""How well did you and Peter get along?""Do you know any twins?"  he asked."Not well.""I suspect it's the closest relationship there is, closer than manyhusbands and wives.  Not that I know about that firsthand.  But weprotected each other.  We could almost read each other's mind.  Evenwhen we fought--and we did, believe me--afterward we each felt moreguilty than angry.  We competed with each other in sports and such, butnot really in any other way.  When he was happy, I was happy.  Whensomething good happened to him, I felt like it had happened to me.  Andvice versa."To his surprise he saw tears in her eyes.  For some reason that broughttears to his own.He continued, "When I say we were close, that seems so inadequate. Youdon't say you're 'close' to your leg or your hand, right?  He was like apart of my body."It all came back to him suddenly, a jumble of memories, or really,images.  Peter's murder.  His mind-boggling reappearance.  The two ofthem, as kids, running through the house, laughing.  Peter's funeral.He turned away in embarrassment, covered his face with his hand, unableto stanch the sob that welled up.He heard a low keening and realized that Anna was crying too, whichsurprised him and, most of all, moved him.  She took his hand in hersand squeezed tight.  Her cheeks glistening with tears, she put an armgently around his shoulders, then both of her arms, and she embracedhim, seemingly careful of his wounds, and laid her face damply on hisshoulder.  It was a moment of intimacy that at once startled him andfelt natural, part of the complex, passionate Anna he was slowly comingto know.  He took solace from her, and she from him.  He could feel herheart thudding against his chest, her warmth.  She raised her head offhis shoulder and slowly, tentatively at first, placed her lips againsthis, her eyes closed tight.  They kissed slowly, tenderly at first, thendeeply and with abandon.  His arms encircled her lithe body, his fingersexploring her as his mouth and tongue did the same.  They had crossed aline each of them had invisibly and firmly drawn some time ago, aboundary, a high wall between natural impulses, containing and isolatingthe powerful electrical charges that now crackled back and forth betweenthem.  And somehow, when they made love, it didn't seem as awkward ashe'd imagined it might be, when he'd allowed himself to imagine it.Finally, exhausted, they napped for half an hour or so, entwined in eachother.When he awoke, he saw that she was gone.The gray-haired man parked his rented Mercedes and walked severalcobblestone blocks down Estomba until he located the house.  He was inthe heart of a barrio of Buenos Aires called Belgrano, one of thewealthiest residential sections.  A young man passed by walking six dogsat once.  The gray-haired man, in a well-tailored blue suit, gave him aneighborly smile.The house was a Georgian-style mansion built of red bricks.  He walkedpast it, seeming to admire the architecture, then he turned back, havingnoted the security booth on the sidewalk in front of the house: an offwhite windowed sentry box in which stood a uniformed man wearing anorange Day-Glo reflective vest.  There seemed to be one of thesesecurity booths on every block around here.A very quiet, very safe neighborhood, Trevor Griffiths thought.  Good.The security guard looked him over.  Trevor nodded in a neighborlymanner, and approached the booth as if to ask the guard a question.Anna carefully packaged Ben's photograph and brought it to a DHL office,paying to get it to Denneen's home address in Dupont Circle as quicklyas possible.  Everything she did now involved some degree of risk, butshe hadn't mentioned DHL on the phone or even to Ben in the room, andshe made sure that no one followed her there.  She was reasonablycertain the photo would arrive safely.Now she stood in a doorway of a shop beneath a red Lucky Strike sign,watching the windows of a cafe at the corner of Junin and Via monte,just down the street from the Facultad Mededna.  The cafe's name, EntreTiempo, was painted on the plate glass in jumbled letters, presumablysignifying wacky fun within.  Couples strolled by absorbed in eachother, gaggles of students wearing backpacks.  A slew of passing yellowand-black taxis.This time there would be no surprises.She'd reconnoitered this site in advance, arranged to meet Sergio Machado here at six-thirty precisely, arrived a full forty-five minutesbeforehand.  A public place in broad daylight.  She'd asked him to takea seat at a table in the window, if one was available, or as close tothe window as possible.  And to bring his cell phone.  Machado seemedmore amused than annoyed by her precautions.At twenty-five after six, a silver-haired man in a blue blazer and openneck button-down blue shirt, fitting the description he'd supplied overthe phone, entered the cafe.  A minute or so later he appeared at atable by the window and looked out onto the street.  She pulled backinto the shop so she couldn't be seen and continued to watch through theglass door.  She'd already explained to the shopkeeper that she waswaiting here for her husband.At six thirty-five, Machado hailed a waiter.A few minutes later the waiter set down a bottle of Coca-Cola.If Machado' had been comp licit in last night's kidnapping, there wouldsurely be others stationed nearby, but she saw no sign of anyone.  Noone lingering, pretending to window-shop, dawdling at a newsstand,sitting in a car idling by a curb.  She knew what to look for.  Machadowas alone.Were there others in place in the cafe awaiting her arrival?Perhaps.  But she was prepared for the possibility.At six forty-five, she switched on Ben's phone and called Machado'scell.It rang once.  "Si?""It's Anna Navarro.""You get lost somewhere?""God, this city's so confusing," she said.  "I guess I got the wrongplace would you mind terribly meeting me here, where I am now?  I justknow I'll get lost again!"  She gave him directions to a cafe a fewblocks away.She watched as he got up, left some change, and, without appearing tosignal to, or consult with, anyone inside the cafe, emerged.  She knewwhat he looked like, but presumably he wouldn't recognize her.He crossed the street and walked past her, and she got a better glimpseof him.  The silver hair was premature; he was a man in his forties withsoft brown eyes and a pleasant look about him.  He carried no briefcaseor file, just his phone.She waited a few seconds, then followed him.He located the cafe easily, and went inside.  She joined him a minute orso later."You mind explaining what all this was about?"  Machado asked.She related what had happened to her and Ben the night before.  Shewatched his face closely; he seemed appalled.Machado had the saturnine look of an Italian film star of the 1960s. Hewas deeply and meticulously tanned.  Around his neck was a thin goldchain, and another gold chain encircled his left wrist.  A verticalworry line was scored deeply between his close-set fawn's eyes.  He woreno wedding band."The police here, they are totally corrupt, you are absolutely right,"he said.  "They hire me to do investigative work for them, as an outsideconsultant, because they don't trust their own people!""I'm not surprised."  The fear left over from the abduction had becomeanger."You know, we have no cop shows here in Argentina like you have inAmerica, because here cops aren't heroes.  They're scum.  I know.  I wasin Federal Police for twenty-one years.  Got my pension and left."A long table nearby, some sort of student study group by the look ofthem, burst into laughter."Everyone here is afraid of the police," he went on heatedly.  "Policebrutality.  They charge for protection.  They shoot to kill wheneverthey want.  You like their uniforms?""They look like New York City cops.""That's because their uniforms were copied exactly from the NYPD.  Andthat's all they copied."  He flashed an endearing smile.  "So what can Ido for you.""I need to find a man named Josef Strasser."His eyes widened.  "Ah, well, you know, this old bastard lives under afalse name.  I don't know where he lives, but I can ask some questions.Not so easy.  You gonna extradite?""No, actually, I need to have a talk with him."He straightened.  "Really?""I may have a way to locate him, but I'll need your help."  She relatedBen's meeting with Lenz's widow.  "If Vera Lenz or her stepson are intouch with Strasser, and they called to warn him, say could you find outwhat number they dialed?""Ah," he said.  "Very nice.  Yes of course, but only if you can getSenora Lenz's telephone number."She handed him a slip of paper with the number on it."The phone companies in Argentina, they record the beginning and end ofall telephone conversations, the number called and how long the call. Itis the Excalibur system, they call it.  My friends in the police, forthe right price, they will get for me all calls made from that number."And as if to demonstrate how easy it was, he placed a call, spokebriefly, read off the number on the scrap of paper."No problem," he said.  "We'll know soon.  Come, I buy you a steak."They walked a few blocks to his car, a white Ford Escort whose backseathad for some reason been removed.  He took her to an old-stylerestaurant near the Cementerio de la Recoleta called Estilo Munich, itswalls adorned with stuffed boar's and stag's heads.  The floor wasmarble but looked like drab linoleum; the ceiling was acoustic tile.Weary waiters shuffled slowly between the tables."I will order for you bife de chorizo," Machado said.  "With chimichurrisauce.  Jugoso, it is O.K.?""Rare is how I like it, yes.  Any symbolism in the fact that you broughtme to a restaurant called Munich?""They serve one of the best steaks in Buenos Aires, and we are a citythat knows steaks."  He gave her a comp licit glance.  "Used to be a lotof restaurants in BA called Munich very fashionable once.  Not sofashionable now.""Not so many Germans."He took a pull of the Carrascal.  His cell phone rang; he spoke briefly,put it back.  "My girlfriend," he apologized.  "I thought we might havesome results on our search, but no.""If Strasser has managed to live here for so long without anybodyfinding him, he must have some good false ID.""People like him got excellent false papers.  For a long time only JakobSonnenfeld was able to trace them.  For years, you know, there was arumor that Martin Bormann was still alive in Argentina, until his skullturned up in Germany.  Nineteen seventy-two, in Berlin.  They werebuilding a bridge, they dug up the ground, and they found a skull.Identified it as Bormann's.""Was it?""A couple of years ago they finally did the DNA test.  It was Bormann'sskull, yes.""What about the rest of his body?""Never found.  I think he was buried here, in Bariloche, and someonebrought the skull to Germany.  To mislead the pursuers."  His eyessparkled with amusement.  "You know Bormann's son lives here.  He's aCatholic priest.  Really."  Another swig of Carrascal.  "It's true.Always rumors about Bormann.  It is like with Josef Mengele.  After hewas buried everyone thinks he faked his own death.  With Lenz the samething.  For years after his death was announced, there was rumors thathe's still alive.  Then they found his bones.""Were they DNA-tested, too?""I don't think.""No one found his skull anywhere.""No skull.""Could he still be alive somewhere?"Machado laughed.  "He'd be more than one hundred twenty.""Well, only the good die young.  He died of a stroke, didn't he?""This is the public line.  But I think Lenz was murdered by Israeliagents.  You know, when Eichmann came here, he and his wife took falsenames, but their three sons--they used the name Eichmann!  At schooleveryone knew the boys as Eichmann.  But no one came to find them, yousee.  No one came to look for them until Sonnenfeld."Their steaks arrived.  Amazingly delicious, Anna thought.  She was notmuch of a meat-eater, but this could convert her."Mind if I ask why you want to talk to Strasser?"  Machado asked."Sorry.  Can't say."He seemed to accept it with good grace.  "Strasser was one of theinventors of ZyklonB.""The gas used at Auschwitz.""But it was his own idea to use it on human beings.  A clever fellow,this Strasser.  He came up with the way to kill Jews so much moreexpeditiously."  After dinner they walked a few doors down to a largecafe called La Biela, on Avenue Quintana, which at after eleven o'clockat night was crowded and loud.Over coffee she asked, "Can you get me a weapon?"He looked at her slyly.  "It can be arranged.""By tomorrow morning?""I'll see what I can do."His phone rang again.This time he jotted down notes on a little square napkin."His phone's listed under the name Albrecht," Machado said when he'dhung up.  "The right age, too.  He used his real birthdates on hisapplication forms.  I think you've found your man.""So someone did call him from Lenz's house.""Yes.  With the phone number it was a simple thing to get the name andaddress.  I think he must have been out of town for a long time, becauseno outgoing calls were made from his home for the last five weeks.  Twodays ago the calls started up again."That would explain why Strasser hadn't yet been reported killed like allthe others, she thought.  He was out of town.  That's how he had stayedalive.  "Your contact," she said.  "Whoever got this information foryou-why does he think you're interested?""Maybe he believes I'm planning some sort of extortion."  "He wouldn'tlet Strasser know you've been looking?"  "My police contacts are toostupid to play those sorts of games."  "Let's hope so."  But her worrywas not so easily allayed.  "What about the sorts of thugs who kidnappedus ..."He frowned.  "The sons and grandsons of the fugitives, they won't messwith me.  I have too many friends in the police.  It is dangerous forthem.  Sometimes when I do this sort of job, I go home and I find Wagneron my answering machine, a veiled threat.  Sometimes they walk by me onthe street, take flash photographs of me.  But that's all they do.  Inever worry."  He lit another cigarette.  "You have no reason to worryeither."  No, no reason to worry, she thought.  Easy for you to say."I'm afraid Mr.  Bartlett isn't able to see any visitors right now, andI don't see an appointment for you."  The receptionist spoke with icyauthority."I'm making an appointment--for right now," Arliss Dupree said.  "Tellhim he'll want to see me.  It's about a matter of mutual concern.Interdepartmental business, O.K.?""I'm very sorry, Mr.  Dupree, but...""Save you the trouble, I'll just mosey on down and knock on his door.You can give him a head's up, or not.  His office is down that way,right?"  A grin played across Dupree's ruddy moon face.  "Don't troubleyourself, girl.  We're going to be fine."The receptionist spoke hurriedly, softly, into the microphone of herheadset.  After a moment, she stood up.  "Mr.  Bartlett said he'd bepleased to see you.  I'll show you to him."Dupree looked around the director's spartan office and for the firsttime felt a twinge of alarm.  It wasn't the comfortable burrow of thetypical career officer--of the lifer who surrounded himself with photosof loved ones and stacks of unfiled paper.  It barely showed signs ofhuman habitation at all."And how can I help you today, Mr.  Dupree?"  Alan Bartlett stood behinda large desk, so uncluttered it might have been a floor model at anoffice-furniture store.  There was something glacial, Dupree thought,about the man's polite smile, something unreadable about the gray eyesbehind the aviator glasses."Lotsa ways, I suppose," Dupree said, and sat himself downunceremoniously on the blond-wooden chair facing Bartlett's desk."Starting with this whole Navarro business.""Most unfortunate, the recent revelations," Bartlett said.  "Reflectspoorly on all of us.""As you know, I wasn't pleased by the TOY you arranged," he said,referring to the cross-departmental assignment of temporary duties."That much you made clear.  Perhaps you knew something about her thatyou chose to be less than forthcoming about.""Naw, that wasn't it."  Dupree forced himself to meet Bartlett's steadygaze.  It was like talking to an iceberg.  "Frankly, it undermines myauthority when a member of my staff gets shifted around like that,without my knowledge or consent.  Some of the staffers will alwaysassume it's some sort of promotion.""I suspect you didn't come here to discuss your personnel difficultiesor management style, Mr.  Dupree.""Hell, no," Dupree said.  "Here's the thing.  The rest of us at Justicealways give you guys at I.C.U a wide berth.  You get up to your stuff,and most of the time we're just as happy not to know about it.  But thistime, you started something that's leaving jelly stains on my carpet,you see what I'm saying?  Putting me in a tight spot.  I'm not makingany accusations, I'm just saying that it got me thinking.""An unaccustomed activity for you, no doubt.  You will find it growseasier with practice."  Bartlett spoke with effortless mandarin disdain."I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed," Dupree said.  "But you'llfind I can still cut.""How reassuring.""It's just that something about the whole thing smelled bad to me."Bartlett sniffed.  "Aqua Velva, would that be?  Or Old Spice?  Youraftershave arrives before you do."Dupree just shook his head, in a show of good-natured confusion.  "So Ipoked around a little.  Learned a little more about you, about whereyou've been.  I hadn't realized before that you owned a huge piece ofproperty on the Eastern Shore.  Not your typical federal employee, Iguess.""My mother's father was one of the founders of Holleran Industries. Shewas one of the heirs to the estate.  That's not a secret.  Nor is itsomething I choose to draw attention to, I'll admit.  I have littleinterest in the high life.  The life I've decided to lead is a ratherplain one, and my tastes are, on the whole, modest.  Anyway, what ofit?""Right, your mother was a Holleran heiress I found that out, too.  Cameas a surprise, I got to say.  Way I see it, it's kind of flattering thata multimillionaire would deign to work among us.""All of us must make decisions in our lives.""Yup, I guess that's true.  But then I'm thinking, how much else isthere about Alan Bartlett that I don't know about?  Probably a lot,right?  Like, what's with all those trips to Switzerland.  Now,Switzerland I guess because at the OSI we're always dealing withmoney-laundering, that place always sets off alarm bells.  So it gets mewondering about these trips of yours."A beat.  "Excuse me?""Well, you do head over to Switzerland a bunch, am I right?""What gives you that idea?"Dupree pulled a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket. Itwas slightly crumpled, but he laid it flat on Bartlett's desk andsmoothed it out.  On it was a series of dots, in a roughly circulararray.  "Sorry it's so crude, I drew it myself."  He pointed to thetopmost dot.  "Over here, we got Munich.  Just under it, Innsbruck.Moving southeast, Milan.  Turin.  Then, a little more easterly and alittle further north Lyon.  Dijon.  Freiburg.""And this would be an adult-education course in geography that you'retaking?""Naw," Dupree said.  "Took me a long time to get this stuff.  I had togo through the computers at passport control and the major airlines,too.  Major pain in the ass, I can tell you.  But these are all airportsthat you traveled through at some point over the past fifteen years.  Alot of them direct from Dulles, some of them with a connecting flightthrough Frankfurt or Paris.  So here I am, and I'm looking at thisscatter of points.  All these dreary goddamn airports and what do theyhave in common?""I expect you're going to tell me," Bartlett said, a look of chillyamusement in his eyes."Well, Christ, take a look at the scatter.  What would you conclude?It's obvious, isn't it?  They're in a circle of points within atwo-hundred mile radius of Zurich.  They're all a hop and a skip fromSwitzerland-that's what these places got in common.  They're all placesyou'd go if you wanted to go to Switzerland and maybe didn't want tohave "Switzerland' stamped on your passport.  Either of your passports,in your case: I was impressed to see you have two authorized passports.""Which is not uncommon among officials in my particular line of work.You're being absurd, Mr.  Dupree, but I'll play along.  Let's say I haveindeed visited Switzerland--so what?""Right, so what?  No harm, no foul.  Only, why'd you tell me youdidn't?""You're really being deliberately dense, Mr.  Dupree, aren't you?  If Ichoose to discuss my vacation plans with you, you'll be the first toknow.  Your behavior today calls into question your fitness to dischargeyour official responsibilities.  It also, if I may say so, verges oninsubordination.""I don't report to you, Bartlett.""No, because seven years ago, when you sought transfer to our unit, youwere turned down.  Judged not to be of I.C.U caliber."  Bartlett's voiceremained cool, but his cheeks had colored.  Dupree knew he had rattledhim.  "And now, I'm afraid, I'll have to call this conversation to anend."I'm not finished with you, Bartlett," Dupree said, standing up.A death's-head smile: " "Great works are never finished.  Onlyabandoned."  So said Val ry.""Harper?""Good-bye, Mr.  Dupree," Bartlett said serenely.  "Your commute home toArlington is a long one at this time of day, and I know you'll want tobeat the rush hour."Ben awoke, aware first of the soft early-morning light, then of Anna'ssoft breathing.  They had slept in the same bed.  He sat up slowly,feeling the dull ache in his limbs, his neck.  He could feel warmthradiating from her nightgown-clad body a few inches away.He walked slowly to the bathroom, the pain now awakening too.  Herealized -he'd slept through an entire day and night.  Ben knew he wasbadly battered, but it was better to move around, stay as limber aspossible, than to confine himself to bed.  Either way it would take timeto recover.He returned to the bedroom, quietly picking up his phone.  FergusO'Connor in the Caymans was expecting his call.  But when he tried toswitch the phone on, he discovered that the battery was dead.  Anna hadapparently forgotten to charge it.  He heard her stirring in the bed.He slipped the phone into its charger cradle and called Fergus."Hartman!"  Fergus exclaimed heartily, as if he'd been waiting for Ben'scall."Give me some news," Ben said, hobbling to the window and looking outover the traffic."Well, I've got good news and bad news.  Whaddaya want first?""Always the good first."There was a beep on the line another call coming in but he ignored it."Right.  There's one shady lawyer in Liechtenstein who came to hisoffice this morning and discovered there'd been a break-in.""Awful sorry to hear that.""Yes.  Particularly since one of his files is missing the folder on anAnstalt he manages for some unnamed party or parties who reside inVienna.""Vienna."  His stomach tightened."No names, unfortunately.  A set of wire instructions, ID codes, and allthat shit.  But definitely Vienna-based.  The owners were careful tokeep their names secret, even from this guy.  Who, by the way, probablyisn't going to be calling the Liechtenstein cops about a missing file.Not with all the illegal shite he's into.""Well done, Fergus.  So what's the bad news?""You've run up quite a bill.  The job in Liechtenstein alone cost mefifty grand.  You think those guys come cheap?  They're fuckingthieves."  Even for Fergus, that was a significant charge.  But giventhe information he'd turned up which no law-enforcement agency couldever have gotten it was worth it."I don't suppose you've got any receipts for me," Ben replied.As soon as he disconnected the call, the phone rang.  "Yes?""Anna Navarro, please!"  a man's voice shouted.  "I need to talk toher!""She's--who is this?""Just tell her it's Sergio.""Ah, yes.  Yes.  just a moment."Anna was awake; the ringing had awakened her.  "Machado?"  she murmured,her voice raspy from sleep.  Ben gave her the phone."Sergio," she said.  "I'm sorry, I had the phone turned off, I think...All right, sure, that's ... What?... What?... Sergio, hello?  Are youthere?  Hello?"She pressed the Off button.  "How weird," she said."What is it?"She stared at him, obviously mystified.  "He said he'd been trying toreach me all night.  He was calling from his car, in a part of towncalled San Telmo.  He wants to meet at the Plaza Bar, I think hesaid-he's got a gun for me.""Why did he sound so frantic?""He said he didn't want any part of this investigation any longer.""They got to him.""He really sounded frightened, Ben.  He said--he said he'd beencontacted by people, threatened--that these weren't the usual locals whowatch out for the fugitives."  She looked up, shaken.  "And the callended in mid-sentence."They could smell the fire even before they entered Plaza Dorrego.  Astheir cab pulled up to the side of the Plaza Dorrego Bar, they saw alarge crowd, ambulances and police cars and fire trucks.The cabdriver spoke quickly."What's he saying?"  Ben asked."He says he can't go any farther, there's been some kind of accident.Come on."She asked the driver to wait for them, then she and Ben leaped out ofthe car and raced into the square.  The smoke had mostly dissipated, butthe air smelled of sulfur and carbon and combusted gasoline. Peddlershad temporarily abandoned their tables in the park at the center of theplaza, leaving their cheap jewelry and perfumes untended while theygathered to watch.  Residents huddled in the doorways of the ancienttenements, to stare in fascinated horror.It was immediately obvious what had happened.  A car had been parkeddirectly in front of the Plaza Dorrego Bar when it exploded, shatteringthe window of the bar, and blowing out windows across the street.Apparently it had burned for quite a while before the fire trucks wereable to put it out.  Even the white zebra stripes painted on the roadnear the wreck had been blackened.A white-haired old woman in a brown print blouse was screaming, over andover, "Madre de Dios!  Madre de Dios!"Ben felt Anna grab his hand and squeeze it tight as they watched theemergency medical workers hack sawing at the burnt-out carcass of theonce-white Ford Escort, trying without success to extricate the charredbody.He felt her shudder when one of the workers managed to wrench back achunk of metal, revealing the black incinerated arm, the wrist encircledby the blackened gold chain, the scorched claw of a hand gripping thelittle cell phone.CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.They sat, stunned, in the back of the cab.Not until they had gone several blocks did either one speak."Oh, my God, Ben.  Dear God."  Anna leaned back against the seat, eyesclosed.He put a hand on her shoulder, nothing more than a moment of comfort.There was nothing he could say to her, nothing that would mean anything."When Machado and I had dinner last night," she said, "he told me thatin all his years of investigations, he was never afraid.  That Ishouldn't be afraid either."Ben didn't know how to reply.  He couldn't shake the horror of seeingMachado's incinerated body.  The hand clutching the cell phone.  Somesay the world will end in fire.  Shuddering, he flashed on Chardin'sfaceless countenance, the man's testimony that the horrors of survivingcould be far greater than those of perishing.  Sigma seemed to have afondness for incendiary solutions.  As gently as he could, he said,"Anna, maybe I should do this alone.""We, Ben," she said sharply.  Ben saw her steely resolve.  She wasstaring straight ahead, her face tense, her jaw clenched.It was as if what they'd just witnessed had fueled her determinationinstead of deterring her.  She was intent on visiting Strasser, nomatter what, and getting to the bottom of the conspiracy that was Sigma.Maybe it was crazy--maybe they were both crazy--but he knew he wasn'tgoing to turn back either.  "Do you think either of us can just go backto our lives after what we've learned?  Do you think we'd be allowedto?"Another long silence elapsed."We'll make a circuit," she said.  "Make sure no one's staking out thehouse, waiting for us.  Maybe they assume that since they've eliminatedMachado, there's no more threat."  There seemed to be relief in hervoice, but he couldn't be sure.The cab barreled through the crowded streets of Buenos Aires toward thewealthy barrio of Belgrano.  It occurred to Ben what a strange andterrible irony it was that a good man had just died so that they couldtry to save the life of an evil one.  He wondered whether the samenotion had occurred to her.  Now we're about to risk our lives to savethe life of a world-historic villain, he reflected.And the true scope of his villainy?  Was there any way of knowing?The harrowing words returned to him.Wheels within wheels--that was the way we worked.... It never crossedanyone's mind that the West had fallen under the administration of ahidden consortium.  The notion would be inconceivable.  Because if true,it would mean that over half of the planet was effectively a subsidiaryof a single mega corporation--Sigma.In recent years, one very special project of Sigma's had come to thefore.  The prospect of its success would revolutionize the nature ofworld control.  No longer would it be about the allocation of funds, thedirecting of resources.  It became, instead, a simple matter of who the"chosen" would be.Was Strasser himself one of the "chosen"?  Or maybe he, too, was dead.Ben said, "I talked to Fergus, in the Caymans.  He's traced the wiretransfers all the way back to Vienna.""Vienna," she repeated without inflection.She said nothing further.  He wondered what she was thinking, but beforehe could ask, the cab pulled to a stop in front of a red-brick villawith white shutters.  A white station wagon was parked in the smalldriveway.Anna said something to the driver in Spanish, then turned to Ben.  "Itold him to circle the block.  I want to look for parked cars,loiterers, anything suspicious."Ben knew it was time, once again, to defer to her.  He'd simply have totrust that she knew what she was doing.  "What's our approach going tobe?"  he asked."All we have to do is get in the door.  Warn him.  Tell him his life'sin danger.  I've got my DOJ credentials, which should be enough to makeus legitimate in his eyes.""We've got to assume that he's been warned--by the Kamaradenwerk thugs,by Vera Lenz, by whatever other sort of early-warning systems he has inplace.  And then what if his life isn't in danger?  What if he's the onebehind the killings?  Have you considered that?"After a beat of silence, she conceded, "It's a real risk."A real risk.  That was a colossal understatement."You don't have a weapon," Ben reminded her."We only need his attention for a moment.  Then if he chooses to listenfurther, he can."And if he was the one behind the killings?  But it was useless to argue.When they had made a complete circuit, the cab stopped, and they gotout.Although it was a warm, sunny day, Ben felt a chill, no doubt from fear.He was sure Anna was frightened, too, but she didn't show it. He admiredher strength.Twenty-five feet before Strasser's house there was a security booth onthe sidewalk.  The guard was a stooped old man with wispy white hair anda drooping mustache, a blue cap perched almost comically atop his head.If ever there were a serious incident on the street, this guard would beuseless, Ben thought.  Still, it was best not to alert him, so the twoof them continued their determined stride as if they belonged here.They stopped before Strasser's house, which was surrounded, like most ofthe houses on this street, by a fence.  This one was of dark-stainedwood, not wrought iron, and it was no higher than Ben's chest.  It waspurely ornamental and seemed to send the message that the inhabitant ofthis house had nothing to hide.  Anna unlatched the wooden gate, pulledit open, and they entered a small, well-kept garden.  From behind theyheard footsteps on the pavement.Nervously, Ben turned.  It was the security guard approaching, maybetwenty feet away.  He wondered whether Anna had an alibi prepared; hedidn't.  The guard smiled.  His dentures were ill-fitting and yellow. Hesaid something in Spanish.Anna muttered, "He wants to see our identification."  To the old man shesaid, "jComo no, senor!"  Certainly.The guard reached into his jacket, oddly, as if to offer identificationof his own.Ben noticed a slight movement across the street, and he turned to look.There was a man standing across the street.  A tall man who had a ruddyface, a thatch of black hair going gray, and thick wheat-field eyebrows.Ben felt a jolt of recognition.  The face was horribly familiar.Where have I seen him before?Paris the rue des Vignoles.Vienna.  The Graben.And somewhere before that.One of the killers.He was aiming a gun at them.Ben shouted, "Anna, get down!"  He flung himself onto the concretegarden path.Anna dove to her left, out of the line of fire.There was a spit, and the guard's chest erupted, a gusher of crimson,and he fell backward to the flagstone sidewalk.  The ruddy-faced manraced toward them.They were trapped inside Strasser's yard.The assassin had shot the guard!  Ben and Anna had ducked, and the poorguard had been caught in the line of fire.Next time the killer would not miss.Even if I could run, Ben thought, it would be toward the killer.And both of them were unarmed!He heard the man shout in English, "It's O.K.!  It's O.K.!  I'm notgoing to shoot!"Ruddy-face had his gun at his side as he raced toward them."Hartman!"  he yelled.  "Benjamin Hartman!"Ben looked up, startled.Anna screamed, "I've got a gun!  Back off!"But the ruddy-faced man still did not raise his weapon.  "It's O.K.! I'mnot going to shoot!"  The man flung his gun to the pavement in front ofhim, his hands outstretched.  "He was about to kill you," theruddy-faced man said as he ran up to the body of the old man. "Look!"Those were the last words the ruddy-faced man spoke.Like a mannequin twitching with incipient life, the ancient guard movedan arm, yanking a slim, silenced revolver from his trousers, andpointing it at the ruddy-faced man who stood over him.  There was a phutand then a soft-nosed slug slammed into his forehead and blew out theback of his skull.What the hell was going on?The ancient guard now began to sit up, even as blood still dribbled fromhis shirt front, He had been wounded, perhaps mortally, but his firingarm was absolutely steady.An impassioned bellow came from behind them: "No!"Ben turned to see another man, stationed by an oak tree, at a diagonalfrom them: their side of the street, but twenty yards to their left.This man was holding a large rifle with a sniper scope, a marksman'sspecial.The ruddy-faced killer's backup?The barrel was directed in their general direction.There was no time to escape its deadly aim.Immediately, Ben heard the blast of the high-powered rifle, tooparalyzed with fear even to flinch.Two, then three bullets hit the ancient guard in the center of his chestand he slumped back to the ground.Once again they had been spared.  Why?  With the scoped rifle, there wasno way the sniper could have missed his intended target.The man with the rifle a man with glossy black hair and olive skin racedover to the crumpled, bloodied body of the watchman, ignoring them.It made no sense.  Why were the gunmen so intent on killing the oldguard?  Who was their real target?Ben stood up slowly, and saw the man reach inside the jacket of the oldman's uniform, and pull out another weapon: a second slim automaticrevolver, silencer screwed on to the barrel."Oh, dear God," Anna said.The olive-skinned man grabbed a fistful of the guard's wispy white hairand tugged at it, and it came off in one floppy piece, like the pelt ofa rabbit, revealing the steel-gray hair underneath.He yanked at the white mustache, which came off just as easily, thengrabbed at the loose skin of the old man's face, lifting off wrinkled,irregular patches of flesh-colored rubber."Latex prostheses," the man said.  He pulled off the nose, then thewrinkled bags under the old man's eyes, and Ben recognized the smooth,unlined face of the man who had tried to kill him in front of JurgenLenz's house in Vienna.  The man who tried to kill them all in Paris.The man who killed his brother."The Architect," Anna gasped.Ben froze.Gaped, disbelieving, but it was true."He was going to kill you both when he got within point-blank range,"the man said.  Ben focused on his tawny skin, oddly long lashes, andsquare jaw.  The man spoke with a vaguely Middle Eastern accent. "Whichhe would easily have done, since his appearance deceived you."Ben recalled the odd gesture, the image of the frail old man reachinginto his jacket, the almost apologetic expression."Wait a minute," Anna said.  "You're "Yossi."  From Vienna.  The IsraeliCIA guy.  Or so you pretended.""Dammit, tell me who you are!"  Ben said."My name isn't important," he replied."Yeah, well it is to me.  Who are you?""Yehuda Malkin."The name meant nothing.  "You've been following me," Ben said.  "I sawyour partner in Vienna and in Paris.""Yeah, he screwed up and got spotted.  He'd been following you for theentire last week.  I was doing backup.  You may as well know: yourfather hired us, Ben."My father hired them.  For what?  "Hired you ... ?""Max Hartman bought our parents' way out of Nazi Germany more than fiftyyears ago.  And the man who was killed wasn't just my partner. He was mycousin."  He closed his eyes for a moment.  "Goddamnit to hell. Aviwasn't meant to die.  It wasn't his time.  Goddamnit to hell."  He shookhis head hard.  His cousin's death evidently hadn't sunk in, and rightnow he wouldn't let it it wasn't the moment.  He looked hard at Ben, sawthe confusion playing across his face.  "Both of us owed your fathereverything.  I guess he must've had some kind of in with the Nazis,because he did that for a bunch of other Jewish families in Germanytoo."Max ransomed Jews bought their way out of the camps?  Then whatSonnenfeld said was true.Anna broke in, "Who trained you?  You're not American-trained," The manturned to her.  "I was born in Israel, on a kibbutz.  My parents movedto Palestine after they escaped from Germany.""You were in the Israeli army?""Paratrooper.  We moved to America in '68, after the Six Day War.  Myparents were fed up with the fighting.  After high school I joined theIsraeli army.""This whole CIA ruse in Vienna what the hell was it about?"  Annademanded."For that, I brought in an American comrade of mine.  Our orders were tospirit Ben away from danger.  Get him back in the States, and under ourdirect protection.  Keep him safe.""But how did you ..."  Anna started."Look, we don't have time for this.  If you're trying to interrogateStrasser, you'd better get in there before the cops show up.""Right," Anna said."Wait," Ben interrupted.  "You say my father hired you.  When?"The man looked around impatiently.  "A week or so ago."  He called Aviand me, told us you were in some kind of danger.  Said you were inSwitzerland.  He gave us names and addresses, places he thought youmight turn up.  He wanted us to do what we could to protect you.  Hesaid he didn't want to lose another son."  He looked around quickly."You were almost killed on our watch in Vienna.  Again in Paris.  Andyou sure had some kind of close call here."Ben's mind swirled with questions.  "Where did my father go?""I don't know.  He said Europe, but he didn't specify, and it's a bigcontinent.  He said he'd be out of contact with everyone for months.Left us a pile of money for travel expenses."  He smiled grimly.  "Awhole lot more than we'd ever need, frankly."Anna, meanwhile, was leaning over Vogler's body and had taken a weaponfrom a nylon shoulder holster.  She unscrewed the silencer, put it inthe jacket of her blazer and tucked the gun into the waistband of herskirt so it was hidden by the jacket.  "But you didn't follow us here,"she said, "did you?""No," he conceded.  "Strasser's name was on the list Max Hartman gaveme, along with his address and cover identity.""He knows what's going on!"  Ben said.  "He knows who all the playersare.  He figured I'd eventually track Strasser down.""But we were able to tail Vogler, who wasn't much concerned about beingfollowed himself.  So once we knew he was flying to Argentina, and wehad Strasser's address ...""You've been watching Strasser's house for the last couple of days,"Anna said.  "Waiting for Ben to show up."He glanced around again.  "You guys ought to move it.""Right, but first tell me this," she went on.  "Since you've been doingsurveillance: did Strasser just recently return to Buenos Aires?""Apparently so.  Back from some vacation, it looked like.  He had a lotof luggage.""Any visitors since his return?"The man thought a moment.  "Not that I saw, anyway.  Just a nurse whogot here maybe a half hour ago ...""A nurse!"  Anna exclaimed.  She looked at the white station wagon thatwas parked in front of the house.  The car was emblazoned with the wordspermanencia EN CASA.  "Come on!"  she shouted."Oh, man," Ben said, following her as she rushed to the front door andrang the bell repeatedly."Shit," she groaned.  "We're too late."  Yehuda Malkin stood back and toone side.In less than a minute, the door slowly came open.  Before them stood anancient man, withered and stooped, his deeply tanned, leathery face amass of wrinkles.Josef Strasser."tQuien es este?"  he said, scowling.  "Se esta metiendo en mis cosas yall ego la enfermera que me tie neque revisar.""He says his nurse is here for his checkup," Anna said.  She raised hervoice.  "No!  Herr Strasser stay away from this nurse, I warn you!"A white shape came into view behind the German.  Ben said, "Anna! Behindhim!"The nurse approached the door, speaking quickly, chidingly it seemed, toStrasser.  "/Vamos, Seftor Albrecht, vamos para alia, que estoy apurada!iTengo que ver al proximo paci ente tod avia"She's telling him to hurry up," Anna told Ben.  "She's got anotherpatient to see.  Herr Strasser, this woman isn't a real nurse I suggestyou ask her for her credentials!"The woman in the white uniform grasped the old man's shoulder and pulledhim half toward her in one violent gesture.  "jYa mist no she said,"vamos!"With her free hand she grabbed the door to pull it closed, but Anna bentforward to block the door's arc with her knee.Suddenly the nurse shoved Strasser aside.  She reached into her uniform,and in one swift motion took out a gun.But Anna moved even more quickly.  "Freeze!"The nurse fired.At the same moment, Anna spun her body sideways, slamming Ben to theground.As Ben rolled to one side he heard a gunshot, followed by an animal likeroar.He realized what had happened: the nurse had shot at Anna, but Anna haddodged out of the line of fire, and it was the Israeli protector who hadbeen hit.A red oval appeared in the middle of the man's forehead, and there was aspray of blood where the bullet exited his skull.Anna got off two quick shots, and the fake nurse arched backward andthen slumped to the floor.And suddenly, for the briefest moment, everything was quiet.  In thenear-silence Ben could hear the distant singing of a bird.Anna said, "Ben, you O.K.?"He grunted yes."Oh, Jesus," she said, turning to see what had happened.  Then she spunback around toward the doorway.Strasser, crouched on the floor in his pale blue bathrobe, shielding hisface with his hands, keened and keened."Strasser?"  she repeated."Gott im Himtnel," he moaned.  "Gott im Hitnmel.  She ha ben mein Lebengerettet!"  Good God in heaven.  You saved my life.Images.  Shapeless and unfocused, devoid of significance or definition,outlines blurring into plumes of gray, disintegrating into nothingnesslike a jet's exhaust tracks in a windy sky.  At first, there was onlyawareness, without even any defined object of awareness.  He was socold.  So very cold.  Save for the spreading warmth on his chest.And where there was warmth, he felt pain.That was good.  Pain was good.Pain was the Architect's friend.  Pain he could manage, could banishwhen he needed to.  At the same time, it meant he was still alive.Cold was not good.  It meant that he had lost a great deal of blood.That his body had gone into shock to lessen the further loss of blood:his pulse would have slowed, his heart beating with lessened force, thevessels in his extremities constricting to minimize the flow of blood tonon vital parts of the body.He had to do an inventory.  He was on the ground, motionless.  Could hehear?  For a moment, nothing disturbed the profound silence within hishead.  Then, as if a connection had been established, he could hearvoices, faintly, muffled, as if inside a building ... Inside a house.Inside whose house?He must have lost a great deal of blood.  Now he forced himself toretrieve the memories of the past hour.Argentina.  Buenos Aires.Strasser.Strasser's house.  Where he had expected Benjamin Hartman and AnnaNavarro and where he had encountered... others.  Including someone armedwith a marksman's rifle.He had taken several gunshots to the chest.  Nobody could survive that.No."  He banished the thought.  It was an unproductive thought.  Athought such as an amateur might have.He had not been shot at all.  He was fine.  Weakened in ways he couldcompensate for, but not out of the running.  They thought he was out ofthe running, and that would be his strength.  The images wavered beforehis mind, but for a brief while he was able to fix them, the images,like passport photos, of his three targets.  In order: Benjamin Hartman;Anna Navarro; Josef Strasser.His mind was as thick and opaque as old crankshaft oil, but, yes, itwould function.  Vet again, it was a matter of mental concentration: hewould assign the injuries to another body--a vividly conceiveddoppelganger, someone who was bloodied and in shock but who was not he.He was fine.  Once he had gathered his reserves, he would be able tomove, to stalk.  To kill.  His sheer force of will had always triumphedover adversity, and it would again.Had an observer been keeping a close watch on Hans Vogler's body, hemight possibly have detected, amid this furious gathering of mentalfortitude, the barest flicker of an eyelid, nothing more.  Everyphysical movement would now be planned and measured out in advance, theway a man dying of thirst in a desert might ration swallows from acanteen.  There would be no wasted movement.The Architect lived to kill.  It was his area of unexampled expertise,his singular vocation.  Now he would kill if only to prove that he stilllived."Who are you?"  asked Strasser in a high-pitched, hoarse voice.Ben glanced from the nurse-impostor in her blood-drenched white uniform,sprawled on the floor, to the assassin who had almost killed them both,to the mysterious protectors his father had hired, both now lyingmurdered on the red clay tiles of the patio."Herr Strasser," Anna said, "the police will be here any moment.  Wehave very little time."Ben understood what she was saying: the Argentine police weren't to betrusted; they couldn't be here when the police arrived.They would have very little time to learn what they needed from the oldGerman.Strasser's face was deeply creased and striated, etched with countlesscrisscrossing lines.  His liver-colored lips stretched downward in agrimace, and they were wrinkled too, like elongated prunes.  Seated oneither side of his creviced, wide-nostri led nose were deep-sunk darkeyes like raisins in a ball of dough.  "I am not Strasser," heprotested.  "You are confused.""We know both your real name and your alias," Anna said impatiently."Now tell me: the nurse--was she your regular one?""No.  My usual nurse was sick this week.  I have anemia and I need myshots.""Where have you been for the last month or two?"Strasser shifted from one foot to another.  "I have to sit down," hewheezed.  He moved slowly down the hallway.They followed him down the hall, to a large, ornate, book-lined room. Itwas a library, a two-story atrium with walls and shelves of burnishedmahogany."You live in hiding," Anna said.  "Because you're a war criminal.""I am no war criminal!"  Strasser hissed.  "I'm as innocent as a baby."Anna smiled.  "If you aren't a war criminal," she replied, "why are youhiding?"He faltered, but only for a moment.  "Here it has become fashionable toexpel former Nazis.  And yes, I was a member of the National Socialistparty.  Argentina signs agreements with Israel and Germany and Americathey want to change their image.  Now they only care what Americathinks.  They'd expel me just to make the American President smile.  Andyou know, here in Buenos Aires, tracking down Nazis is a business!  Forsome journalists it's a full-time job, how they make their living!  ButI was never a Hitler loyalist.  Hitler was a ruinous madman that wasclear early in the war.  He would be the destruction of all of us.  Menlike me knew that other accommodations had to be reached.  My peoplesought to kill the man before he could do further damage to ourindustrial capacities.  And our projections were correct. By the war'send, America had three-quarters of the world's invested capital, andtwo-thirds of the world's industrial capacity."  He paused, smiled. "Theman was simply bad for business.""If you'd turned against Hitler, why are you still protected by theKamaradenwerk?"  Ben asked."Illiterate thugs," Strasser scoffed.  "They are as ignorant of historyas the avengers they seek to thwart.""Why did you go out of town?"  Anna interrupted."I was staying at an estancia in Patagonia owned by my wife's family. Mylate wife's family.  At the foot of the Andes, in Rio Negro province.  Acattle and sheep ranch, but very luxurious.""Do you go there regularly?""This is the first time I go there.  My wife died last year and ... Whydo you ask these things?""That's why they couldn't find you to kill you," Anna said."Kill me ... But who is trying to kill me?"Ben looked at Anna, urging her to continue speaking.She replied, "The company.""The company?""Sigma."She was bluffing, Ben knew, but she did it with great conviction.Chardin's words came to his mind, unbidden.  The Western world, and muchof the rest, would respond to its ministrations, and it would accept thecover stories that accompanied them.Now Strasser was brooding.  "The new leadership.  Yes, that is it.  Ah,yes."  His raisin eyes gleamed."What is the 'new leadership'?"  Ben prompted."Yes, of course," Strasser went on as if he hadn't heard Ben.  "They areafraid I know things.""Who?"  Ben shouted.Strasser looked up at him, startled.  "I helped them set it up.  AlfordKittredge, Siebert, Aldridge, Holleran, Conover--all those crowned headsof corporate empires.  They had contempt for me, but they needed me,didn't they?  They needed my contacts high up in the German government.If the venture wasn't properly multinational, it had no hope ofsucceeding.  I had the trust of the men at the very top.  They knew Ihad done things for them that forever placed me beyond the pale ofordinary humanity.  They knew I had made that ultimate sacrifice forthem.  I was a go-between trusted by all sides.  And now that trust hasbeen betrayed, exposed for the charade it always was.  Now it has becomeclear that they were using me for their own ends.""You talked about the new leaders--is Jurgen Lenz one of them?"  Annaasked urgently.  "Lenz's son?""I have never met this Jurgen Lenz.  I didn't know Lenz had a son, butthen I wasn't an intimate of his.""But you were both scientists," Ben said.  "In fact, you inventedZyklon-B, didn't you?""I was one of a team that invented Zyklon-B," he replied.  He pulled athis shabby blue bathrobe, adjusted it at the neck.  "Now all theapologists attack me for my role in this, but they do not consider howelegant was this gas.""Elegant?"  Ben repeated.  For a second he thought he'd misheard.Elegant.  The man was loathsome."Before Zyklon-B, the soldiers had to shoot every prisoner," Strassersaid.  "Terrible bloodbaths.  Gas was so clean and simple and elegant.And you know, gassing the Jews actually spared them."Ben echoed: "Spared them."  Ben was sickened."Yes!  There were so many deadly diseases that went around those camps,they would have suffered much longer, much more painfully.  Gassing themwas the most humanitarian option."Humanitarian.  I'm looking in the face of evil, Ben thought.  An old manin a bathrobe uttering pieties."How nice," Ben said."This is why we called it 'special treatment."  ""Your euphemism for extermination.""If you wish."  He shrugged.  "But you know, I didn't hand-pick victimsfor the gas chambers like Dr.  Mengele or Dr.  Lenz.  They call Mengelethe Angel of Death, but Lenz was the real one.  The real Angel ofDeath.""But not you," Ben said.  "You were a scientist."Strasser sensed the sarcasm.  "What do you know of science?"  he spat."Are you a scientist?  Do you have any idea how far ahead of the rest ofthe world we Nazi scientists were?  Do you have any idea?"  He spoke ina high tremulous voice.  Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth."They criticize Mengele's twin studies, yet his findings are still citedby the world's leading geneticists!  The Dachau experiments in freezinghuman beings those data are still used!  What they learned atRavensbruck about what happens to the female menstrual cycle understress when the women learned they were about to be executedscientifically this was a breakthrough!  Or Dr.  Lenz's experiments onaging.  The famine experiments on Soviet prisoners of war, the limbtransplants I could go on and on.  Maybe it's not polite to talk aboutit, but you still use our science.  You'd rather not think about how theexperiments were done, but don't you realize that one of the mainreasons we were so advanced was precisely because we were able toexperiment on live human beings?"Strasser's creased face had gotten even paler as he spoke, and now itwas chalk-white.  He had grown short of breath.  "You Americans aredisgusted by how we did our research, but you use fetal tissue fromabortions for your transplants, yes?  This is acceptable?"Anna was pacing back and forth.  "Ben, don't debate with this monster."But Strasser would not stop.  "Of course, there were many crackpotideas.  Trying to make girls into boys and boys into girls."  Hechortled.  "Or trying to create Siamese twins by connecting the vitalorgans of the twins, a total failure, we lost many twins that way ""And after Sigma was established, did you continue to keep in touch withLenz?"  Anna asked, cutting him off.Strasser turned, seemingly perturbed at the interruption.  "Certainly.Lenz relied on me for my expertise and my contacts.""Meaning what?"  Ben said.The old man shrugged.  "He said he was doing work, doing researchmolecular research that would change the world.""Did he tell you what it was, this research?""No, not me.  Lenz was a private, secretive man.  But I remember he saidonce, "You simply cannot fathom what I'm working on."  He asked me toprocure sophisticated electron microscopes, very hard to get in thosedays.  They had just been invented.  Also, he wanted various chemicals.Many things that were embargoed because of the war.  He wantedeverything crated and sent to a private clinic he had set up in an oldSchloss, a castle, he had seized during the invasion of Austria.""Where in Austria?"  Anna asked."The Austrian Alps.""Where in the Alps?  What town or village, do you remember?"  Annapersisted."How can I possibly remember this, after all these years?  Maybe henever told me.  I only remember Lenz called it 'the Clockworks' becauseit had once been some kind of clock factory."A scientific project of Lenz's.  "A laboratory, then?  Why?"Strasser's lips pulled down.  He sighed reproachfully.  "To continue theresearch.""What research?"  he said.Strasser fell silent, as if lost in thought."Come on!"  Anna said.  "What research?""I don't know.  There was much important research that began during theReich.  Gerhard Lenz's work."Gerhard Lenz: what was it Sonnenfeld had said about Lenz's horrificexperiments in the camps?  Human experimentation ... but what?"And you don't know the nature of this work?""Not today.  Science and politics it was all the same to these people.Sigma was, from the beginning, a means of tunneling support to certainpolitical organizations, subverting others.  The men we're talking aboutthese were already men of enormous influence in the world.  Sigma showedthem that if they pooled their influence, the whole could be far, fargreater than the sum of its parts.  Collectively, there was very littlethey couldn't affect, direct, orchestrate.  But, you know, Sigma was aliving thing.  And like living things, it evolved.""Yes," Anna said.  "With funds provided by the largest corporations inthe world, along with funds stolen from the state Reichsbank.  We knowwho the founding board members were.  You're the last living member ofthat original board.  But who are your successors?"Strasser looked down the hall, but he seemed to be staring at nothing."Who controls it now?  Give us names!"  Ben shouted."I don't know'."  Strasser's voice cracked.  "They kept people like mequiet by sending us money regularly.  We were lackeys, finally excludedfrom the inner councils of power.  We should all be billionaires many,many times over.  They send us millions, but it is crumbs, tablescraps."  Strasser's lips curled up in a repellent smile.  "They give metable scraps, and now they wish to cut me off.  They want to kill mebecause they don't want to pay me anymore.  They're greedy, and they'reashamed.  After all I did for them, they regard me as an embarrassment.And a danger, because even though the doors have been shut to me foryears, they still think I know too much.  For making possible everythingthey do, how am I repaid?  With contempt!"  A growing sense of rage--thepent-up grievance of years--made his words hard, metallic. "They act asif I am a poor relation, a black sheep, a foul-smelling derelict.  Theswells gather in their fancy-dress forum, and their biggest fear is thatI will crash their party, like a skunk at a kaffeeklatsch.  I know wherethey gather.  I am not such a fool, such an ignoramus.  I would not jointhem in Austria had they asked me to."Austria."What are you talking about?"  Ben demanded.  "Where are they gathering?Tell me."Strasser gave him a look that combined wariness and defrance.  It wasclear that he would say no more."Goddamnit, answer me!""You are all the same," Strasser spat.  "You would think somebody my agewould be treated with respect!  I have nothing more to say to you."Anna was suddenly alert.  "I hear sirens.  This is it, Ben.  We're outof here."Ben stood directly in front of Strasser.  "Herr Strasser, do you knowwho I am?""Who you are ... ?"  Strasser stammered."My father is Max Hartman.  I'm sure you remember the name."Strasser squinted.  "Max Hartman ... the Jew, our treasurer ... ?""That's right.  And he was an SS officer as well, I'm told."  ButSonnenfeld had said that would merely have been a cover, a ruse.  Hisheart was pounding, he dreaded hearing Strasser's confirmation of Max'sugly past.Strasser laughed, flashing his ruined brown teeth.  "SS!"  he laughed."He was no SS.  We gave him fake SS papers so odessa would smuggle himout of Germany into Switzerland, with no questions asked.  That was thedeal."Blood roared in Ben's ears.  He felt a wave of relief, a physicalsensation."Bormann chose him personally for the German delegation," Strasser wenton, "Not just because he was skilled at moving money around, but becausewe needed a ... a false head ""A figurehead.""Yes.  The industrialists from American and elsewhere were not socomfortable with what the Nazis had done.  A Jewish participant wasnecessary to provide legitimacy to show that we weren't the wrong kindof Germans, to show that we were not zealots, not Hitler disciples. Forhis part, your father got for himself a good deal he got his family outof the camps, and a lot of other Jewish families as well, and he wasgiven forty million Swiss francs almost a million dollars U.S. A lot ofmoney."  A horrible smile.  "Now he calls himself 'rags to richesstory."  Is a million dollars rags?  I don't think.""Ben!"  Anna shouted.  Quickly she flashed the leather wallet that heldher Department of Justice credentials.  "Now you want to know who / am,Herr Strasser?  I'm here on behalf of the U.S. Justice Department'sOffice of Special Investigations.  I'm sure you know who they are.""Oh ho," Strasser said.  "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm anArgentine citizen and I don't recognize your authority."The sirens were louder, just a few blocks away it seemed.Anna turned back to him.  "So I guess we'll see how serious theArgentine government is about extraditing war criminals.  Out the backway, Ben."Strasser's face flashed with rage.  "Hartman," he said hoarsely."Come on, Ben!"Strasser crooked a finger at Ben, beckoning him.  Ben could not resist.The old man began to whisper.  Ben knelt down to listen."Hartman, do you know your father was a weak little man?"  Strassersaid.  "A man without a spine.  A coward and a fraud who pretends to bea victim."  Strasser's lips were inches from Ben's ear.  His voice wassingsong.  "And you are the fraud's son, that's all.  That is all youare to me."Ben closed his eyes, fought to control his anger.The fraud's son.Was this true?  Was Strasser right?Strasser was clearly enjoying Ben's discomfort."Oh, you'd like to kill me right now, isn't that right, Hartman?"Strasser said.  "Yet you don't.  Because you're a coward, like yourfather."Ben saw Anna starting down the hall."No," he said.  "Because I'd much rather you spend your remaining lifein a stinking jail cell in Jerusalem.  I'd like your last days to be asunpleasant as possible.  Killing you is a waste of a bullet."He ran down the corridor, following Anna to the back of the house, asthe sirens grew louder.Crawl, don't walk.  The Architect knew that the effort to maintainorthostatic blood pressure in his head would be made much more difficultby standing erect, when there was as yet no absolute need to do so.  Itwas a rational decision, and his ability to make it was almost asreassuring as the Clock he had retained in an ankle holster.The front door was open, the hallway deserted.  He crawled, in astandard infantry crawl, indifferent to the wide smear of blood he wasleaving as his shirt front draped against the blond flooring.  Everyyard seemed like a mile to him.  But he would not be deterred.You're the best.  He was seventeen, and the drill instructor told himso, in front of the entire battalion.  You're the best.  He wastwenty-three, and his commanding officer at Stasi had said so in anofficial report that he showed young Hans before forwarding it to hissuperior.  You're the best.  These words from the head of his Stasidirectorate: he had just returned from a "hunting trip" in West Berlin,having dispatched four physicists-members of an internationallydistinguished team from the University of Leipzig--who had defected theday before.  You're the best a top-level Sigma official, a white-hairedAmerican in flesh-toned glasses, had spoken those words to him.  It wasafter he had stage-managed the death of a prominent Italian leftist,shooting him from across the street while the man was in the throes ofpassion with a fifteen-year-old Somali whore.  But he would hear thosewords again.  And again.  Because they were true.And because they were true, he would not give up.  He would not succumbto the nearly overpowering urge to surrender, to sleep, to stop.With robotic precision, he moved hand and knee and propelled himselfdown the hallway.Finally, he found himself in a spacious, double-height room, its wallslined with books.  Lizardlike eyes surveyed the area.  His primarytarget was not present.  A disappointment, not a surprise.Instead, there was the wheezing, sweating weakling Strasser, a traitorwho, too, was deserving of death.How many more minutes of consciousness did the Architect have left?  Heeyed Strasser avidly, as if extinguishing his light might help torestore his own.Shakily, he rose from the floor into a marksman's crouch.  He feltmuscles in his body trying to spasm, but he held his arms completelystill.  The small Clock in his arms had now acquired the weight of acannon, yet somehow he managed to raise the firearm until it was at theprecisely correct angle.It was at that moment that Strasser, perhaps alerted by the old-pennyodor of blood, finally became aware of his presence.The Architect watched the raisin-like eyes widen momentarily, then fallclosed.  Squeezing the trigger was like lifting a desk with one finger,but he would do so.  Did so.Or did he?When he failed to hear the gun's report, he first worried that he hadnot executed his mission.  Then he realized that it was his sensoryawareness that was beginning to shut down.The room was swiftly darkening: he knew that brain cells starved ofoxygen ceased to function--that the aural and optical functions shutdown first, but that sentience itself would soon follow.He waited until he saw Strasser hit the ground before he allowed his owneyes to close.  As they did so, there was a fleeting awareness that hiseyes would never open again; and then there was no awareness of anythingat all.Back in the hotel room, Ben and Anna rifled through a stack of papersthat they'd hurriedly purchased at a newsstand on the way.  Chardin hadreferred to an imminent development.  And the "fancy-dress forum" inAustria that Strasser had mentioned chimed with an item they'd recentlycome across: but what was it?The answer was within their grasp.It was Anna who came across the item in El phi's, Argentina's leadingnewspaper.  It was another brief article about the InternationalChildren's Health Forum a convocation of world leaders to discussmatters of pressing mutual concern, especially with respect to thedeveloping world.  But what caught her eye this time was the city wherethe meeting was to be held: Vienna, Austria.She read on.  There was a list of sponsors among them, the LenzFoundation.  Translating from the Spanish, she read the article out loudto Ben.A shiver ran down his spine.  "My God," he said.  "This is it!  It hasto be.  Chardin said only days remained.  What he was talking about hasto be related to this conference.  Read me the list of sponsors again."Anna did so.And Ben started to make a few phone calls.  These were calls tofoundation professionals, people who were delighted to hear from one oftheir contributors.  Slipping into a familiar role, Ben sounded hale andhearty when he spoke to them, but what he learned was profoundlydismaying."They're great people, the folks from the Lenz Foundation," GeoffreyBaskin, programs director for the Robinson Foundation, told him in hisdulcet New Orleans accent.  "It's really their baby, but they justwanted to keep a low profile.  They put it together, footed most of thebill it's hardly fair that we're getting any of the glory.  But I guessthey wanted to make sure it had an international feeling.  Like I say,they're really selfless.""That's nice to hear," Ben said.  His tone upbeat even as hefelt a rising sense of dread.  "We may be partnering with them on aspecial project, so I just wanted to get your sense of them.  Reallynice to hear."Dignitaries and leaders from around the world would be gathering inVienna, under the auspices of the Lenz Foundation ... They had to get toVienna.It was the one place in the world they shouldn't be showing their faces,and the one place where they had no choice but to go.Anna and he paced the hotel room.  They could take precautionsprecautions that now came as second nature: disguise, falsifiedidentities, separate flights.But the risks seemed much greater now."If we're not just chasing a will-o'-the-wisp, we've got to assume thatevery commercial flight into Vienna is going to be scrutinized verycarefully," Anna said.  "They're going to be on full alert."Ben felt the flicker of an idea.  "What did you say again?""They're going to be on full alert.  Border control isn't going to be acakewalk.  More like a gauntlet.""Before that.""I said we've got to assume that every commercial flight into Vienna""That's ir," Ben said."What's it?""Anna, I'm going to take a risk here.  And the calculation is that it'sa smaller risk than we'd otherwise be facing.""I'm listening.""I'm going to call a guy named Fred McCall an  He was the codger I wassupposed to go skiing with in St.  Moritz.""You were going to St.  Moritz to go skiing with a 'codger."  "Ben blushed.  "Well, there was a granddaughter in the picture.""Go on.""More to the point, though, there's a private jet in the picture.  AGulfstream.  I've been in it once.  Very red.  Red seats, red carpeting,red TV set.  Fred will still be at the Hotel Carlton there, and theplane will probably be at the little airport in Chur.""So you're going to call him up and ask for the keys.  Kind of likeborrowing someone's station wagon to pick up groceries, right?""Well..."Anna shook her head.  "It's true what they say the rich really aredifferent from you and me."  She shot him a look.  "I mean, of course,just me.""Anna ...""I'm scared as shit, Ben.  Bad jokes come with the territory.  Listen, Idon't know this guy from Adam.  If you think you can trust him if that'swhat your gut is telling you then I can live with it.""Because you're right, it's the commercial flights they'll be watching"Anna nodded vigorously.  "So long as they're not coming from places likeColombia, private flights get pretty much a free pass.  If this guy'spilot can move the Gulfstream to Brussels, let's say...""We go directly to Brussels, assuming nobody's onto the IDs Oscar madefor us.  Then transfer to Fred's private jet and fly to Vienna that way.That's the way the Sigma principals travel.  Chances are, they're notgoing to be expecting a Gulfstream with two fugitives on board.""O.K."  Ben," Anna said.  "I call this the beginning of a plan."Ben dialed the number of the Hotel Carlton and waited a minute for thefront desk to connect him.Fred McCall an voice boomed even through the international phone lines."My God, Benjamin, do you have any idea of the hour?  Never mind, Isuppose you're calling to apologize.  Though I'm not the one you shouldapologize to.  Louise has been devastasted.  Devastated. And you twohave so much in common.""I understand, Fred, and I...""But actually I'm glad you finally called.  Do you realize they'resaying the most preposterous things about you?  A guy called me up andgave me an earful.  They're saying that...""You've got to believe me, Fred," Ben said urgently, cutting him off,"there's no truth to those reports whatever I mean, whatever they'reaccusing me of, you've got to believe me when I say that...""And I laughed in his face!"  Fred was saying, having talked over Ben'sinterjection.  "I told him, maybe that's what you get from your creepyEnglish boarding schools, but I'm a Deerfield man myself, and there's noway on God's green earth that...""I appreciate the vote of confidence, Fred.  The thing is ...""Top-seeded in tennis, I told him.  You were, weren't you?""Well, actually...""Track and field?  I was a track and field man myself did I ever showyou my trophies?  Louise thinks it's ridiculous that I'm still boastingabout them fifty years later, and she's right.  But I'm incorrigible.""Fred, I've got a really, really, really big favor to ask.""For you, Benny?  You're practically family, you know that.  One day youmight actually be family.  Just say the word, my boy.  Just say theword."As Anna said, it was the beginning of a plan, no more.  But foolproofwould take more time than they had.  Because the one thing that wascertain was that they had to make their way to Vienna as fast aspossible, or it would be too late.Unless it was, as Chardm had suggested, already too late.CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE.The hotel was in Vienna's seventh district, and they had selected itbecause it appeared to be suitably anonymous, catering mostly to Germanand Austrian tourists.  Traveling to Brussels in uniform as David Paine,Ben arrived first, by several hours; Anna, using the GayatriChandragupta alias for one last time, had traveled on a separate flight,connecting through Amsterdam.  McCall an pilot, a genial Irishman namedHarry Hogan, was perplexed by the odd garb of his guests, and furtherperplexed that they'd refused to tell him in advance where they plannedon going, but the old man had been vehement in his instructions:whatever Ben wanted, Ben would get.  No questions asked.Compared to the luxury of the Gulfstream, and the open-facedcompanionability of Harry Hogan, the hotel seemed drab and depressing.All the more so because Anna hadn't arrived yet: they agreed thattraveling together from the airport was a risk best avoided.  They'dtravel separately, and by different routes.Alone in the room, Ben felt caged and anxious.  It was noontime but theweather was foul; rain spattered against the room's small windows,deepening his sense of gloom.He thought about Chardin's life, about the incredible ways in which thegovernance of the Western world had been molded and directed by thesecorporate managers.  And he thought about his father.  A victim?  Avictimizer?  Both?Max had hired people to watch out for him--minders, baby-sitters, forGod's sake.  In a way, that was typical of the man: if Ben wouldn't letold secrets stay buried, then Max would try to control him his own way.It was both infuriating and touching.When Anna arrived--they were sharing the room as Mr.  and Mrs.  DavidPaine--he embraced her, placing his face next to hers and feeling someof his sense of anxiety ebb.Feeling grimy from the long flight, they each showered.  Anna took along time, emerging from the bathroom in a terry-cloth robe, her darkbrown hair combed straight back, her skin glowing.As she went to her suitcase to pick out clothes, Ben said, "I don't wantyou to see Lenz alone."She didn't look up.  "Oh, is that right?""Anna," he said, exasperated, "we don't even know who Jurgen Lenz reallyis."Holding a blouse in one hand and a navy skirt in the other, she turnedto face him.  Her eyes flashed.  "At this point, it doesn't matter.  Ihave to talk to him.""Look, whoever he is, we can assume that he was at least involved in themurder of eight old men around the world.  My brother, too.  And it's aplausible assumption that he's become a principal in a conspiracy that,if Chardin is right, has no real outer bounds.  Lenz knows my face, andnow he no doubt knows where I've been.  So it's a fair assumption thathe knows I've been traveling with you, which means he may well have seena photograph of you.  It isn't safe for you to go see this man.""I'm not disputing that, Ben.  We don't have the luxury of choosingbetween the safe thing and the dangerous thing: whatever we do at thispoint will involve danger.  Even doing nothing.  Besides, if I'm killedshortly after asking him questions about a series of murders around theworld, he'd immediately bethefocusof suspicion and I seriously doubt hewants that.""What even makes you think he'll see you?"She set the clothes down on the edge of the bed."The best way to play him is not to play him.""I don't like the sound of this.""This is a man who's used to being in control, used to manipulatingpeople and events.  Call it arrogance or call it curiosity, but he'llwant to see me.""Listen to me, Anna ...""Ben, I can take care of myself.  I really can.""Obviously," he protested.  "It's just that " He stopped.  She waslooking at him strangely.  "What?""You're the protective type, aren't you?""I don't know about protective, exactly.  I'm just "She approached him, examining him as if he were an exhibit in a museum."When we met, I just assumed you were another rich, spoiled,self-centered preppy.""You were probably right.""No.  I don't think so.  So was that your role in the family--thecaretaker?"Embarrassed, Ben didn't know how to reply.  Maybe she was right, but forsome reason he didn't want to say it.  Instead, he drew her close. "Idon't want to lose you, Anna," he said quietly.  "I've lost too manypeople in my life."She closed her eyes and hugged him tight; both of them were agitated,nervous, exhausted, and yet as they embraced a moment of calm passedbetween them.  He inhaled her delicate floral scent, and something inhim melted.Then, gently, she withdrew.  "We have a plan, and we've got to followit, Ben," she said, her voice soft but resolute, and she dressedquickly.  "I have to make a pickup at the DHL office, and then make abusiness call.""Anna," Ben said."I've got to go.  We can talk later.""Oh, sweet Jesus," said Officer Burt Connelly.  He had been on the 166Virginia highway patrol for only six months, and he still wasn'taccustomed to the sight of roadside carnage.  He felt his stomachheaving, scurried to the side of the road, and vomited.  A splash got onhis crisp blue uniform, and he wiped it off with a tissue.  Then hetossed the tissue out, too.Even in the low light of the early evening, he could see only tooclearly the blood spattered across the windscreen and the man's head onthe dashboard.  It had been severed from the body and horribly flattenedby the impact--the "second collision," as they called it, which was thecollision of the passenger inside the crashed vehicle itself.Connelly's partner, Officer Lamar Graydon, had been on highway patrolfor more than a year.  He'd seen a few gruesome accidents before, and heknew how to keep his lunch down."It's a bad one, Burt," Graydon said, walking over and patting hispartner's back.  A sort of weary bravado played in his brown eyes. "ButI've come across worse.""Did you see the guy's head!""At least there's no little kids involved.  Let me tell you, last year,I was at an accident scene where a baby got ejected through the openwindow of an Impala, thrown thirty feet in the air.  Like a goddamn ragdoll.  Now, that was horrible."Connelly coughed a few times, and straightened up.  "Sorry," he said."It's just that guy's face ... I'm O.K. now.  Ambulance on the way?""Should be here in ten minutes.  Not that he's feeling any pain."Graydon nodded toward the decapitated accident victim."So what's the situation here?  SVF?"  Statistically, a single-vehiclefatality was the most common sort."Not a chance," Graydon said.  "No guardrail does that.  This is whathappens when you slam into one of those Kenworth car haulers, and thereare plenty of 'em on this highway.  With monsters like that, the backhangs low, and it's one flat steel edge like a blade.  If you're behindone of those things and it stops short, either you duck or it takes yourhead off.  I'll betcha that's what you're looking at.""Then what happened to the other guy?  Where's the goddamn truck?"Connelly was starting to regain a sense of self-possession.  Oddly, heeven felt a little hungry again."Looks like he decided not to stick around," Graydon said."Well, are we going to find it?""I've radioed it in.  Dispatcher's got the info.  Between you and me,though, I wouldn't bet money on it.  Thing to do right now is try to IDthe guy.  Search the pockets."Though the top of the red Taurus was smashed in, the door on thedriver's side opened easily.  Connelly put on latex gloves beforerummaging through the headless man's pockets; that was procedure whenclothing was blood-soaked."Give me a name, and I'll radio that in, too," Graydon called out."Driver's license says Dupree, Arh'ss Dupree," Connelly said.  "Lives onGlebe Road, in Arlington.""That's all we need to know," Graydon said.  "And you don't have tofreeze your ass off, Burt.  We can wait in the patrol car now."The building that housed the Lenz Foundation was, Bauhaus style, allglass and marble.  The lobby was flooded with light, furnished simplywith white leather chairs and sofas.Anna asked the receptionist to call the office of the director.  That hewas at the foundation she'd already verified with an earlier phone call."Who shall I say wishes to see Dr.  Lenz?"  she inquired."My name is Anna Navarro.  I'm an agent with the U.S. Department ofJustice."She'd earlier considered and rejected the idea of approaching him undersome false alias.  But as she'd told Ben, she'd decided that the bestway to play him was not to play him.  If Lenz did even a cursorybackground check, he'd learn of her outlaw status.  But would that makehim less likely to see him, or more?  If their theories about AlanBartlett were correct, Jorgen Lenz might already know a fair amountabout her.  But he wouldn't know--couldn't know--precisely what she hadlearned, and might have conveyed to others.  She had to rely upon hiscuriosity, his arrogance, and, most of all, his desire to control thesituation.  He would want to know whether she posed a threat to him, andhe would want to assess that himself.The receptionist picked up her desk phone and spoke quietly, then handedAnna the handset.  "Please."The woman on the phone was courteous but firm.  "I'm afraid Dr.  Lenzhas a full schedule today.  Perhaps you'd like to make an appointmentfor another day?  I'm afraid that with the International Children'sHealth Forum, all the people here have their hands full."He had to be evading her, but was that because he'd heard herinstitutional affiliation, or because he already knew her name?  Maybethe woman hadn't even bothered to convey the message."It really can't wait," Anna said.  "I need to see him as soon aspossible on an extremely urgent matter.""Can you tell me what you wish to speak with Dr.  Lenz about?"She hesitated.  "Please tell him it's a personal matter."She put the phone down and paced nervously around the lobby.Here I am in the lair of the beast, she thought.  The heart of darkness,airy and full of light.The white Carrara marble walls were bare except for a line of largeblowups of photographs depicting the wide range of humanitarian causessupported by the Lenz Foundation.There was a picture of several generations of a refugee family--atoothless, hunched old woman, a weathered and beaten-down husband andwife, their ragged children.  This was entitled simply kosovo.Meaning what?  What did the Lenz Foundation have to do with refugees?There was a portrait of a peculiarly wizened girl with a beaked nose,parchment skin, prominent eyes, long hair that was obviously a wig. Shewas smiling with crowded, irregular teeth, at once a young girl and anold woman.  This photograph was labeled hutchinson-gilford proGERIASYNDROME.There was the famous stark and shocking photograph of emaciatedconcentration-camp inmates looking curiously at the camera from theirbunk beds.  the holocaust.A strange array of causes.  What connected them?Anna sensed a presence and looked up.  A matronly woman had appeared inthe lobby, a pair of reading glasses hanging from a chain around herneck.  "Ms.  Navarro," she said.  "You're quite fortunate.  Dr.  Lenzhas managed to free up a few minutes to see you."At a security station on the floor above, a technician hunched over acontrol panel.  Manipulating a joystick, he swiveled and zoomed in oneof the wall-mounted cameras.  The visitor's light brown face now filledthe flat screen plasma display.  The press of a button froze the image.By means of a thirty-seven point physiognomic metric, the face could bedigitally compared with a set of image files in the system's extensivedatabase.  Somehow the technician suspected that it would not take longto come up with a match.He was right.  A quiet electronic chirp alerted him that the imagematched a file from the watch list.  As a column of information scrolleddown the monitor, he picked up the phone and called Lenz, dialing anumber that rang directly on his desk.Jorgen Lenz was just as Ben had described him: whippet-thin, silverhaired, elegant, and charming.  He wore a perfectly cut suit of darkgray flannel, a neatly pressed white shirt, a foulard tie.  He sat in aChippendale-style chair facing her, his hands folded in his lap."Well, you've got me," he said as he handed her credentials back to her."Excuse me?""You've piqued my curiosity.  I'm told a woman is here to see me fromthe American government in connection with a 'personal matter"--howcould I possibly resist such a lure?"She wondered how much he knew about her.  She could see already that hewas as smooth and hard as polished stone."Thank you for seeing me," Anna returned courtesy with courtesy.  "I'vebeen on special assignment, investigating a series of murders around theworld--""Murders?"  he said.  "What in heaven's name can I tell you aboutmurders?"She knew she had one chance, and she'd have to hit him hard.  Anyweakness, any hesitation, any uncertainty, and the game was over.  Shewould stick to one issue of narrow concern: the Sigma homicides."The murder victims were all involved in a corporation known as Sigma,of which Gerhard Lenz was a founder.  We've established a directconnection between the deaths and a subsidiary of the chemical giantArmakon, on whose board you sit..."Lenz seemed to relax.  He laughed deeply, mellifluously.  "Ms. Navarro,in all my years of crusading against the evil that my father did, I'vebeen accused of many terrible things--disloyalty to family, disloyaltyto my country, opportunism, insincerity, you name it--but no one hasever accused me of murder!"Anna had known what to expect.  He would be poised, nonconfrontational,evasive.  So she had tried to anticipate his every response, and she wasready with a reply.  "Dr.  Lenz," she said, "I hope you're not denyingthat you're on the board of Armakon.""It's purely honorary."She hesitated, then said, "I don't want to waste your time.  As youknow, Armakon is the secret owner of a biotech start-up in Philadelphiacalled Vortex."She watched his face.  His eyes were neutral, guarded.  "I'm sureArmakon owns many inconsequential start-ups around the world.  So?""Vortex," she went on, "is the inventor and manufacturer of a syntheticsubstance that's used in basic research, for molecular tagging.  It'salso a deadly poison that, once injected into a person's bloodstream,induces immediate death by heart failure, and is then undetectable inthe blood."He replied in a flat voice, "How interesting.""Tharparticular toxin was found in the ocular fluid of several of thesemurder victims.""Do you have a point?""I do," she said quietly, eyes locked on his.  She was momentarilystartled by what she saw there: absolute searing contempt.  "I haveevidence linking you directly to those murders."For a moment there was only the ticking of a clock.  Somberly, Lenzclasped his hands.  He looked like a Lutheran minister.  "Agent Navarro,all these terrible charges you hurl at me.  These terrible things yousay I've done.  I took time out of an extremely busy day time I canscarcely afford to squander because I thought we could help each otherin some way.  Perhaps a friend of mine was in trouble. Perhaps someoneneeded my help, or vice versa.  Instead, you come here on what I believeis called a 'fishing expedition."  " He rose from his chair.  "I'mafraid you'll have to leave."Heart hammering, she thought: Not so fast, you bastard.  "I'm not doneyet," she said with a firmness that she could see surprised him."Agent Navarro, I really don't have to talk to you.  Correct me if I'mwrong, but anyone who visits me as an agent of American law enforcementis here as a guest of my country.  If you wish to interrogate me becauseof who my father was, you must ask permission of the Austriangovernment, yes?  Have you done that?""No," she admitted, flushing.  "But let me be clear ""No, madame," he said, raising his voice.  "Let me be clear.  Youhaven't done that because you are no longer in the employ of yourcountry.  In fact, you are yourself a fugitive from justice.  Let usboth put our cards on the table.  Your investigations have taken yououtside the boundaries of lawful conduct.  My secretary conveys theinsistent requests of an American agent to see me.  At my behest, shemakes a few phone calls to verify your identity."  His eyes didn't leaveher face.  "She discovers that you are a wanted woman.  But then youmust have expected we would take such precautions.  And yet you came tosee me all the same.  Which piqued my curiosity further.""Anything to alleviate the dull tedium of your days," Anna said."Put yourself in my position, Ms.  Navarro.  A rogue U.S. agent takes avery peculiar interest in me this isn't something that happens everyday.  Naturally I wonder: Have you come across someone or something thatis a threat to me?  Have you broken ranks and come to tell me about somehostile intrigue within American intelligence?  I know ourinvestigations of Operation Paper Clip have earned me enemies in someAmerican circles.  Have you come to warn me of some imminent menace? Theimagination whirls.  The mind boggles.  So how could I resist meetingwith you?  You knew I could not.""We're getting off the subject," Anna broke in.  "None of this "Lenz talked over her.  "So you'll appreciate how sorely disappointed Iwas when I learned that you're here only to hurl absurd, unfounded, andeasily discredited accusations.  From all indications, you're not onlyoff the reservation, as your countrymen like to say you're out of yourmind."  He pointed to his desk.  "I need only pick up this phone andcall a friend of mine in the Justice Ministry and you would be remandedto the tender mercies of the U.S. authorities."You want a fight, she thought, you got it.  He was not going tointimidate her.  Not with what she knew about him."You're perfectly right," she said calmly.  "You could pick up thatphone and do that.  But I wonder whether it would best serve yourinterests."Lenz had turned his back on her and was heading toward the exit.  "MissNavarro, your silly games really don't interest me.  Now would youplease leave my office this moment, or shall I be forced to ""Just before I came here I stopped at the local DHL office, where adocument was waiting for me.  It contained the results of a search Irequested.  I had submitted a set of your fingerprints and asked the labto identify them.  It took a long time.  Our Latent Fingerprints Sectionhad to dig deep to find a match.  But they did."  She took a breath."Dr.  Lenz, I know who you are.  I don't understand it.  I really can'tfathom it, to be quite honest.  But I know who you really are."She was terrified, more frightened than she'd ever been before.  Herheart was hammering; blood rushed in her ears.  She knew she had nobackup.Lenz stopped short, a few feet from the exit, and closed the door. Whenhe turned around, his face had gone dark with rage.CHAPTER FORTY.Ben joined the modest crowd of journalists and cameramen assembledoutside the Wiener Stadthalle Civic Center, the large, beige stonestructure where the International Children's Health Forum was to behosted.  He made eye contact with a cold and miserable-lookingman--paunchy, middle-aged, dressed in a fraying tan trench coat.  Benextended a hand.  "I'm Ron Adams," he said.  "With American Philanthropymagazine.  Been standing out here long?""Too damn long," the rumpled man said.  He spoke with a cockney accent."Jim Bowen, Financial Times.  European correspondent and patheticwretch."  He shot Ben a comic, mock-baleful glance.  "My editorsweet-talked me into going with promises of schnitzel and strudel andSachertorte, and I thought to myself, "Well, that's a bit of all rightthen."  Higgins will never hear the end of it: there's a solemn vow. Twodays of standing around in this lovely frigid rain, my little piggiesturning into popsicles, down to practically my last fag, and all we getare the same damn press releases they're faxing all the bureaus.""But you must be seeing some pretty grand poobahs sauntering in and out.I've looked at the guest list.""Well, that's the thing--wherever they are, they're not here.  Maybethey're just as bored with the program as everybody else.  Probably alldecided to nip out and take a quick skiing vacation.  Strictly B-list,the only people I've caught sight of.  Our photographer's taken todrink, he has.  I think he's got the right idea, too.  I've got half amind to pop down the corner for a pint, except they serve the ale toodamn cold in this country.  Ever notice that?  Plus which, the stuffthey make tastes like piss."The big names weren't here?  Did that mean that the Sigma conclave wastaking place elsewhere?  Ben's stomach plummeted: Had he been misled?Perhaps Strasser had been mistaken.  Or perhaps he and Anna had made afalse assumption somewhere along the line."Any rumors about where the muckety-mucks are hanging out?"  Ben kepthis tone light.The cockney scribe snorted.  "Bloody hell.  Know what it is?  It's likeone of those sodding nightclubs where all the really hip people getshown to a special room, and the squares get stuck in a pen with hay onthe floor."  He rummaged through a badly squashed and nearly empty packof Silk Cuts.  "Bloody hell."Ben's mind raced.  Jurgen Lenz was clearly calling the shots here. Justas clearly, the real action wasn't taking place at the conference atall.  The answer was no doubt to be found in the Lenz Foundation'sactivities.  And here, an indirect approach would probably yield thequickest results.  Back at the hotel, he worked the phones, keeping oneeye on his watch.  He wanted to collect as much information as possiblebefore he and Anna compared notes at the end of the day."Cancer Foundation of Austria.""I'd like to speak with the administrator in charge of fundraising,please," Ben said.  There was a click, several seconds of hold music--"Tales from the Vienna Woods," naturally--and then another woman'svoice: "Schimmel.""Frau Schimmel, my name's Ron Adams, and I'm an American journalist inVienna, working on a profile of Jurgen Lenz for American Philanthropymagazine."The administrator's voice changed instantly from wary to exuberant:"Yes, certainly!  How may I help you?""I guess I'm really interested--especially in light of the InternationalChildren's Health Forum--in documenting his generosity, the extent ofhis support for your foundation, his involvement, that sort of thing."The vague question elicited an even vaguer reply.  She went on atlength, then he hung up, frustrated.  He had called the Lenz Foundationand asked a low-level staffer for a list of all charities they funded.No questions were asked: as a tax-exempt institution, the LenzFoundation was obligated to divulge all of its gifts.But what he was looking for specifically, he had no idea.  He wasprobing mindlessly.  There had to be a way to penetrate the facade ofJurgen Lenz, philanthropist.  Yet there seemed to be no logic to thetype of grantsLenz made, no commonality, no organizing principle.Cancer--Kosovo-Progeria--The German-Jewish Dialogue?  Those were themain ones.  But if there was a connection, he had yet to find it, evenafter calling three different charities.One more try, he told himself, and then move on.  He got up from thedesk in the hotel room, got a Pepsi from the little refrigerator,returned to the desk, and dialed another number from the list."Hello, Progeria Institute.""May I speak to the administrator in charge of fund-raising, please?"A few seconds went by."Meitner.""Yes, Frau Meitner.  My name is Ron Adams ..."Without much hope he went through his now-standard interview.  The womanwas, like all the administrators he talked to, a great fan of JurgenLenz and delighted to sing his praises."Mr.  Lenz is really our chief benefactor," she said.  "Without him, Ithink we could not exist.  You know, this is a tragic and exceedinglyrare disorder.""I really don't know anything about it," he said politely.  He realizedhe was wasting time when there was none to spare."To put it simply, it's premature aging.  The full name isHutchinsonGilford Progeria Syndrome.  It causes a child to age seven oreight times faster than he should.  A ten-year-old child with progeriawill look like an eighty-year-old man, with arthritis and heart problemsand all the rest.  Most of them die by the age of thirteen. Seldom dothey grow taller than the height of the average five-year-old.""My God," Ben said, genuinely appalled."Because it's so rare, it is what is called an 'orphan disease," whichmeans it gets very little funding for research, and the drug companieshave no financial incentive to find a cure.  That's why his help is soterribly important."Biotech companies... Vortex."Why do you think Mr.  Lenz takes such a personal interest?"A hesitation.  "I think perhaps you should ask Mr.  Lenz."He sensed the sudden chill in her voice.  "If there's anything you'dlike to tell me off the record ..."A pause.  "Do you know who Jurgen Lenz's father was?"  the woman saidcarefully.Did anyone?  "Gerhard Lenz, the Nazi doctor," Ben replied."Correct.  Off the record, Mr.  Adams, I'm told that Gerhard Lenz didsome ghastly experiments on children with progeria.  No doubt JurgenLenz simply wishes to undo what his father did.  But please don't printthat.""I won't," Ben promised.  But if Jurgen Lenz was not Gerhard's son, whythe interest in the same causes' What sort of bizarre masquerade wasthis?"You know, Mr.  Lenz even sends a few of these poor children to aprivate sanatorium in the Austrian Alps that his foundation runs.""Sanatorium?""Yes, I think it's known as the Clockworks."Ben bolted upright.  The Clockworks: the place where Strasser had sentthe senior Lenz electron microscopes.  If Jurgen was Gerhard's son, hewould have inherited it.  But was he really using it as a sanatorium?He attempted a breezy tone.  "Oh, where's that?""The Alps.  I don't know exactly where.  I've never been there.  It'sexclusive, private, very luxurious.  A real escape from the bustle ofthe city.""I'd love to talk to a child who's been there."  And find out what'sreally going on."Mr.  Adams," she said somberly, "the children who are invited areusually at the very end of their brief lives.  Frankly, I don't know ofany who might still be living.  But I'm sure one of the parents wouldn'tmind talking to you about Mr.  Lenz's generosity."The man's apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up in a dismal apartmentbuilding in Vienna's twelfth district, a small and dark place thatsmelled of stale cigarette smoke and cooking grease.After the death of their beloved son at the age of eleven, the manexplained, he and his wife had divorced.  Their marriage had notsurvived the stress of their son's illness and death.  Prominentlydisplayed next to the sofa was a large color photograph of their boy,Christoph.  It was hard to tell his age; he could have been eight oreighty.  He was completely bald, with a receding chin, a large head witha small face, bulging eyes, the wizened countenance of a very old man."My son died at the sanatorium," the man said.  He had a full graybeard, bifocal glasses, a scraggly fringe around a bald pate.  His eyeswere filled with tears.  "But at least he was happy at the end of hislife.  Dr.  Lenz is a most generous man.  I'm glad Christoph could diehappy.""Did you ever visit Christoph there, at the Clockworks?"  Ben asked."No, parents are not permitted.  It's a place only for children.  All ofthe children's medical problems are taken care of by an expert medicalstaff.  But he sent me postcards."  He got up and returned a few minuteslater with a picture postcard.  The handwriting was a large, childishscrawl.  Ben turned the card over and saw the color photograph of analpine mountain.  The caption beneath the photograph said SEMMERING.Lenz's widow had mentioned Semmering.Strasser had talked about Gerhard Lenz's research clinic in the AustrianAlps.Could it be the same place?Semmering.He had to find Anna immediately, get this information to her.He looked up from the card and saw the father weeping silently.  In aminute the man was able to speak.  "This is what I always tell myself.My Christoph died happy."They had arranged to meet back at the hotel no later than seven o'clockthat evening.If she was unable to return by then, Anna said, she'd call.  If for somereason she was unable to call, or thought it was unsafe to do so, shehad specified a fallback meeting place: nine o'clock at theSchweizerhaus in the Prater.By eight o'clock she hadn't returned to the hotel, and there was nomessage.She'd been gone for almost the entire day.  Even if Lenz had agreed tosee her, Ben couldn't figure out how she could spend more than an houror two at the foundation.  But she'd been gone almost twelve hours.Twelve hours.He was beginning to worry.At eight-thirty, when she still hadn't called, he left for theSchweizerhaus, on Strasse des Ersten Mai 2. By now he was beyondnervous; he was fearful that something had happened to her.  He askedhimself, Am I overreacting?  She doesn't have to account for herwhereabouts at all times.Still... It was a lively place, renowned for its roasted pork hocksserved with mustard and horseradish sauce.  Ben sat alone at a table fortwo, waiting, nursing a Czech Budweiser beer.Waiting.The beer didn't calm his nerves.  All he could think about was Anna, andwhat might have become of her.By ten o'clock there was still no sign of her.  He called the hotel, butshe had neither arrived nor left a message.  He repeatedly checked hisphone to make sure it was on so she could reach him if she tried.He ordered dinner for two, but by the time the food arrived he'd losthis appetite.Around midnight he returned to the empty hotel room.  He tried to readfor a while but was unable to concentrate.The sandpaper of Chardin's voice: Wheels within wheels--that was the waywe worked.... Strasser: a cabal within a cabal... Lenz said he was doingwork that would change the world.He fell asleep on top of the bed, in his clothes, with all the roomlights on, and slept fitfully.He and Peter were strapped to two gurneys, side by side; above them wasDr.  Gerhard Lenz, gowned and masked in full surgical garb.  His lighteyes, however, unmistakable.  "We will make the two of them one," he wassaying to a hatchet-faced assistant.  "We will connect their organs sothat neither will be viable without the other.  Together, both willsurvive--or together, both will die."  A gloved hand wielded a scalpellike a violin bow, pressing it against flesh in bold, confident strokes.The pain was beyond endurance.Struggling against the restraints, he turned to see his brother's face,staring, frozen in horror."Peter!"  he called out.His brother's mouth gaped open, and under the harsh overhead lights, Bencould see that Peter's tongue had been removed.  The heavy smell ofether filled the air, and a black mask was forcibly placed over Ben'sface.  But it didn't produce unconsciousness; if anything, he grew morealert, more aware of the horrors being done to him.He awoke at three in the morning.And still Anna hadn't returned.A long, sleepless night followed.He tried to doze but was unable to.  He hated not having anyone to call,or anything he could do to locate her.He sat, tried to read, couldn't focus.  He could think only of Anna.Oh, God, he loved her so.At seven, groggy and disoriented, he called down to the front desk, forthe fifth time, to see whether Anna might have called from somewhere inthe middle of the night.No message.He took a shower, shaved, ordered a room service breakfast.He knew something had happened to Anna; he was certain of it.  There wasno way in the world she would have voluntarily gone off someplacewithout calling in.Something had happened to her.He drank several cups of the strong black coffee, then forced himself toeat a hard roll.He was terrified.In Wahringer Strasse, there is an "Internet cafe," one of several suchplaces listed in the Vienna telephone book.  This one called itself anInternet Bar/Kaffehaus and turned out to be a garishly fluorescent-litroom with a few iMacs on little round Formica tables, and an espressomachine.  The floor was sticky and the place smelled of beer.  Itcharged fifty Austrian shillings for thirty minutes of Internet accesstime.He typed the word Semtnering in several different search engines andcame up with the same entries each time: home pages for ski resorts,hotels, and general chamber-of-commerce-type descriptions of a villageand ski resort in the Austrian Alps about ninety kilometers from Vienna.Desperate, knowing he could be making a terrible mistake, he found apublic telephone and called the Lenz Foundation.  This was the lastplace he knew she'd gone.  It was crazy, almost pointless, to ask there,but what else was there to do?He asked for Jurgen Lenz's office, and then asked Lenz's executiveassistant whether a woman named Anna Navarro had been in.She seemed to know Anna's name immediately, without hesitation.  Butinstead of answering his question, she demanded to know his name.Ben identified himself as being an "attache" from the U.S. embassy."Who is this calling?"  the woman demanded to know.He supplied a false name."Dr.  Lenz has asked me to take a number, and he'll call you back.""Actually, I'm going to be out of the office the whole day.  Let me talkto Dr.  Lenz, if I could," he said."Dr.  Lenz is not available.""Well, do you have any idea when he'll be free to talk?  It's importantthat we speak.""Dr.  Lenz is out of the office," she said coldly."All right, I've got his home phone number, I'll try him there."The secretary hesitated.  "Dr.  Lenz is not in Vienna," she offered.Not in Vienna.  Smoothly: "It's just that the ambassador himself askedme to speak to him.  A matter of great urgency.""Dr.  Lenz is with a special delegation from the InternationalChildren's Health Forum he's taken them on a private tour of some of ourfacilities.  That's no secret.  Did the ambassador want to join them? Ifso, I'm afraid it's too late."Too late.After a pause, the secretary said, "You must be reachable at the U.S.embassy general telephone number, yes?"He hung up.CHAPTER FORTY-ONE.The train to Semmering left Vienna's Sudbahnhof at a few minutes afternine.  Ben had left Vienna without checking out of the hotel.He was wearing jeans and sneakers and his warmest ski parka.  Theninety-kilometer journey would be brief, much faster than renting a carand driving along the twisting alpine roads.The train cut through the dense terrain, plunged into long tunnels andskirted high above steep mountain passes.  It passed gently rollinggreen farmland, whitewashed stone buildings with red roofs, theiron-gray mountains rising up behind; then it climbed slowly, overnarrow viaducts, and sliced through breathtaking limestone gorges.The train compartment was mostly empty, its interior amber-lit, thehigh-backed seats upholstered in ugly orange twill.  He thought aboutAnna Navarro.  She was in some kind of peril.  He was sure of it.He felt he knew her well enough to be certain that she'd never simplyvanish of her own accord.  Either she'd abruptly gone somewhere fromwhich she couldn't call, or she'd been forcibly taken somewhere.But where?After they'd rejoined each other in the Vienna hotel, they had spent along time discussing Lenz.  Ben recalled what Gerhard Lenz's widow hadblurted out--why does Lenz send you?  You come here from Semmering? AndStrasser had told them of having electron microscopes shipped to an oldclinic in the Austrian Alps known as the Clockworks.But what was in Semmering now that the old woman was so afraid of?Obviously something ongoing, perhaps connected to the string of murders.Anna was determined to locate that clinic in the Alps.  She wasconvinced she'd find answers there.Which suggested that she might have gone looking for the Clockworks. Andif he were wrong--if she wasn't there--then at least maybe he'd be astep closer to finding her.He studied the Freytag & Berndt map of the SemmeringRaxSchneeberg regionhe'd picked up in Vienna before he left, and tried to devise a plan.Without knowing where the clinic or research facility was, though, hehad no idea how to get inside.The Semmering station was a modest two-story structure in front of whichstood only a green bench and a Coke machine.  As soon as he stepped offthe train he was hit by an icy wind; the climate difference betweenVienna and the Austrian Alps to the south was striking.  Here it wasbracingly cold.  After a few minutes of hiking up the steep, windingroad into the town, his ears and cheeks stung from the chill.And as he walked he began to feel misgivings.  What am I doing?  heasked himself.  What if Anna's not here, then what?The village of Semmering was tiny.  It was one street, Hochstrasse,lined with Gasthauses and inns, set into the south face of a mountain,above it a couple of sprawling luxury resort hotels and sanatoriums. Tothe north was Hollental, Hell's Valley, a deep gorge carved out by theSchwarza River.Above the bank on Hochstrasse was a small tourist office presided overby a plain young woman.Ben explained that he was interested in hiking around the Semmeringregion and asked for a more detailed Wanderkarte.  The woman, whoclearly had nothing else to do, provided one and spent a good deal oftime pointing out particularly scenic trails.  "You can go, if you want,along the historic Semmering Railway--there is a panoramic vista whereyou can watch the train go through the Weinzettlwand Tunnel. There isalso a wonderful place to stop where they took the picture for the oldtwenty-shilling banknote.  And a magnificent view of the ruins of thecastle of Klamm.""Really," Ben said, feigning interest, and then added casually, "I'mtold there is some sort of famous private clinic around here in an oldSMoss.  The Clockworks, I think it's called.""The Clockworks?"  she said blankly.  "Uhrwerken?""A private clinic--maybe more of a research facility, a scientificinstitute, a sanatorium for sick children."There seemed to be a quick flash of recognition in the woman's eyes-ordid he imagine it?--but she shook her head.  "I don't know what you'retalking about, sir, I'm sorry.""I think someone said this clinic was owned by Dr.  Jurgen Lenz... ?""I am sorry," she repeated, too quickly.  She had suddenly turnedsullen.  "There is no such clinic."He continued down Hochstrasse until he came to what appeared to be acombination Gasthaus and pub.  In front was a tall black chalkboardtopped with a green placard for Wieninger Bier and an invitation on apainted scroll beneath it: "Herzhch Willkommen" A Hearty Welcome.  Theday's specials were advertised in bold white chalk letters.It was dark inside and smelled of beer.  Although it was not yet noon,three portly men were sitting at a small wooden table drinking fromglass steins of beer.  Ben approached them.Tin looking for an old Schloss around here that houses a research clinicowned by a man named Jurgen Lenz.  The old Clockworks."The men gazed up at him suspiciously.  One of them muttered something tothe others, who murmured back.  Ben heard "Lenz" and "Klinik."  "No,nothing here."Again, Ben sensed unmistakable antagonism.  He was certain that thesemen were concealing something, and slipped several thousand-shillingnotes on the table, toying with them idly.  No time for subtlety.  "Allright, thank you," he said, turning halfway to leave.  Then, as if he'dforgotten something, he turned back.  "Listen, if any of you guys haveany friends who might know something about this clinic, tell them I'llpay for the information.  I'm an American entrepreneur looking for someinvestment opportunities."He left the pub and stood for a moment in front of the building.  Acluster of men in jeans and leather jackets strolled by, hands inpockets, speaking Russian.  No sense in asking them.A few seconds later he felt a tap on his shoulder.  It was one of themen from the pub.  "Em, how much will you pay for this information?""I'd say if the information is accurate, it's worth a couple thousandshillings to me."The man glanced around furtively.  "The money first, please."Ben regarded him for a moment, then handed him two banknotes.  The manled him down the road a few meters and then pointed up toward the steepmountain.  Set into the side of the snow-covered peak and surrounded bytightly packed, snow-frosted fir trees as dense as crabgrass, was anancient medieval castle with a baroque facade and a gilded clock tower.Semmering.The clinic where Hitler's science adviser, Josef Strasser, had shippedsophisticated scientific equipment decades ago.Where Jurgen Lenz invited a few lucky children afflicted with a terribledisease.Where piecing together what he'd learned with what Lenz's secretary hadsaid a delegation of world leaders and dignitaries had come to visit.And where Anna might have gone.  Was it possible?Certainly it was possible; in any case, it was all he had.The Clockworks had been there all along, hidden in plain sight, and hehad seen it walking up from the train station.  It was by far thebiggest property visible anywhere around."Magnificent," Ben said softly.  "Do you know anyone who's ever beeninside?""No.  No one is allowed.  There is much security there.  It is veryprivate, you can never go in.""Well, they must hire local workers.""No.  All workers are flown in by helicopter from Vienna, and they haveliving quarters there.  There is a helipad, you can see it if you lookclosely.""What do they do there, do you know?""I only hear things.""Like what?""They do strange things there, people say.  You see strange-lookingchildren arriving in buses ...""Do you know who owns it?""Like you say, this Lenz.  His father was a Nazi.""How long has he owned it?""A long time.  I think maybe his father owned it after the war.  Duringthe war the Schloss was used by the Nazis as a command center.  It usedto be called the Schloss Zerwald this is the old name for Semmering fromthe Middle Ages.  It was built by one of the Esterhazy princes in theseventeenth century.  For a while at the end of last century it was, howyou say, abandoned, then it was used for about twenty years as a clockfactory.  The old-timers around here still call it the Uhrwerken.  Howdo you say ?""Clockworks."  Ben took out another thousand-shilling note.  "Now, justa few more questions."A man was looming over her, a man in a white coat whose face kept goingin and out of focus.  He had gray hair and was speaking softly, evensmiling.  He seemed friendly, and she wished she could understand whathe was saying.She wondered what was wrong with her that she couldn't sit up: had shebeen in an accident?  Had a stroke?  She was overtaken by a suddenpanic.She heard "... to have to do that to you, hut we really had no choice."An accent, perhaps German or Swiss.Where am I?Then: "dissociative tranquilizer..."Someone speaking English to her with some sort of Middle Europeanaccent.And "... as comfortable as possible while we wait for the ketamine toleave your system."She began to recall things now.  The place she was in was a bad place, aplace she had been very curious about once but now wished she wasn't in.She had vague memories of a struggle, of being grabbed by several strongmen, of being jabbed with something sharp.  After that, nothing.The gray-haired man, who she now felt was a very bad man, was gone, andshe closed her eyes.When she opened them again, she was alone.  Her head had cleared.  Shefelt bruised all over, and she realized that she was tied down to a bed.She lifted her head as much as she could, which was not very far becausethere was a belt around her chest.But it was enough to see the cuffs and belts in which she was locked andfastened to a hospital gurney.  They were polyurethane medicalrestraints, the kind that also came in leather and were used in mentalhospitals for their most violent and dangerous patients.  They werecalled "humane restraints," and she had used them herself back in hertraining days.Her wrists were cuffed and locked and attached by a long chain to awaist belt that was also locked.  The same for her ankles.  Her armswere chafed and painful, indicating that she had struggled mightily.The restraints were color-coded: red for the wrists, blue for theankles.  These were of more recent vintage than the leather ones she hadused, but surely the lock hadn't changed.  The key, she remembered, wassmall and flat with no teeth on it, straight on one side, tapered on theother to a wedge-shaped point.She remembered that hospital restraints were actually quite easy to pickif you knew how, but she would need a paper clip or something like it, astraight and rigid piece of metal wire.She craned her head to one side and examined the bulky anesthesiamachine on one side of her bed, and, on the other side, the metal cartjust a few tantalizing feet away.It had eight drawers.  On top of it were scattered medical supplies,bandages and forceps, scissors, and a sterile package of safety pins.But there was no way to reach it.She tried to shift her body to the left, toward the gleaming cart,hoping for slack in the restraints, but there was almost none.  Sheshifted to the left, this time violently, a sudden hard jerk that didnothing; the only thing that moved at all was the bed itself, which hadto be on wheels.Wheels.She was silent for a moment, listening for approaching footsteps.  Thenshe lurched against the restraints again and felt the wheels give whatshe imagined was another inch or two.Encouraged by the movement, tiny as it was, she lurched again.  Thewheels moved another minuscule distance.But the cart still looked as distant and unreachable as the mirage of alake to a thirsty man in a desert.She rested a moment, her neck spasming in pain.Then she summoned her strength again and, trying to ignore how far awaythe cart was, she jerked at the restraints and gained maybe an inch.An inch, out of several feet, felt like a single step in the New YorkMarathon.She heard footsteps in the hallway and voices that grew louder, and shefroze, resting her strained neck while she waited, and the voicespassed.A lunge to the left and the gurney gave up another couple of inches.She did not want to think about what she would do once she reached thecart; that was another challenge entirely.  She would have to take thisa step at a time.An inch at a time.Another inch or so.  Another.  The cart was not much more than a footaway.  She jerked again and gained another inch and the silver-hairedman entered the room.Turgen Lenz, as he called himself.  But now she knew the astonishingtruth.JurgenLenzwhowasnotJurgenLenz.CHAPTER FORTY-TWO.At the end of Hochstrasse Ben found a sporting goods store that featureda wide variety of equipment for the tourist and sportsman.  He rented apair of cross-country skis and asked where he could rent a car.No place for miles.Parked at the side of the shop was a BMW motorcycle that looked old anddecrepit but still functional.  He struck a deal with the young man whomanaged the place, and owned the bike.With the skis strapped to his back he set off across the ridge of theSemmering pass until he came to a narrow unmarked dirt road that woundsteeply uphill through a ravine to the Schloss.  The road was rutted andicy; it had evidently been used recently by trucks and other heavyvehicles.When he had managed to climb perhaps a quarter of a mile, he came to ared sign that said bet reten verboten--privatbesitz: No Trespassing--Private Property.Just ahead of the sign was a barrier gate whose arm was striped inyellow-and-black reflective paint.  It appeared to be electronicallycontrolled, but Ben was easily able to hop over it and then wheel thebike underneath, tipped at an angle.Nothing happened: no Klaxon, no alarm bells.He continued up the road, through dense snow-covered woods, and in a fewminutes reached a high, crenellated stone wall.  It looked centuriesold, though recently restored.From atop the wall rose several feet of thin, horizontally strung wire.At a distance, this addition was not visible, but Ben saw it clearlynow.  It was probably electrified, but he did not want to scale the walland find out the hard way.Instead, he followed the wall for a few hundred feet until it came towhat appeared to be the main gate, about six feet wide and ten feethigh, constructed of ornately scrolled wrought iron.  Upon closerexamination, Ben realized that the fence was in fact steel painted tolook like iron, entirely backed with a screen of woven wire fabric. Thiswas certainly high-security, designed to foil intruders.He wondered whether it was made to keep people out or in.Had Anna somehow gotten inside?  he wondered.  Was it possible?  Or wasshe being held prisoner?The dirt road came to an end another few hundred meters from the gate.Beyond it was glistening virgin snow.  He parked the motorcycle, put onhis skis, and set off across the snow, staying close to the wall.His idea was to survey the entire perimeter of the property, or at leastas much as was possible to examine, in hopes of discovering any holes inthe security, any possible points of entry.  But it did not lookpromising.The snow was soft and deep, so he sank into the powder, and the evendeeper drifts and dunes made maneuvering difficult.  It was no easieronce he got the hang of it, because the terrain became steeper, thesiding ever more arduous.The ground next to the wall became higher, and pretty soon Ben could seeover it.Glare coming off the snow forced him to squint, but he could now makeout the Schloss, a great rambling stone structure, more horizontal thanvertical.  At first glance this could have been a tourist attraction,but then he saw a couple of guards in military-style tunics, carryingsubmachine guns, patrolling the property.Whatever was happening inside these walls was not simple research.What he saw next was a profound shock.  He didn't understand it, butwithin the enclosed area were children, dozens and dozens of raggedlooking children, milling outside, in the cold.  He peered again,squinting against the snow glare.Who were they?And why were they there?This was no sanatorium, that was for sure; he wondered whether they wereprisoners.He skied uphill a short distance, close enough to get a better look, butnot so close that he lost his line of sight behind the high stone wall.Inside, next to the wall, was a fenced-in area the size of a city block.Within it were several large military-style tents jammed with children.It seemed to be a makeshift shantytown, a tent city, its inhabitantsyouth from some Eastern European country.  The steel fence that enclosedit was topped with coils of razor wire.It was a strange vision.  Ben shook his head as if to clear it of anoptical illusion, then looked again.  Yes.  They were children, sometoddlers, some teenagers, unshaven and rough-looking, smoking andshouting to one another; girls in head scarves shabby peasant dresses,and tattered coats, children swarming all around.He had seen news footage of people like this.  Whoever they were,wherever they were from, they had that unmistakable look of impoverishedyouth driven out of their homes by war--Bosnian refugees, escapees fromthe conflicts in Kosovo and Macedonia, ethnic Albanians, perhaps.Was Lenz sheltering war refugees here, on the grounds of his clinic?Jorgen Lenz, humanitarian, giving shelter to refugees and ailingchildren?Unlikely.For this was hardly a shelter.  These peasant children were packed intotheir tent city, inadequately dressed, freezing in the cold.  And therewere the armed guards.  This looked like some kind of internment camp.Then he heard a shout from the encampment, an adolescent boy's voice.Someone within had spotted him.  The shout was soon joined by others,the wretched inmates suddenly waving at him, beckoning to him, callingto him.  He understood at once what they wanted.They wanted to be released.They wanted his help.  They saw him as a savior, someone outside whocould help them escape.  His stomach turned, he shivered, and not fromthe cold.What was being done to them?Suddenly a shout arose from another direction, and one of the guardspointed his weapon toward Ben.  Now several of the guards were shoutingat him, waving him away.The threat was clear: get off the private property or we'll shoot.He heard a blast of gunfire and turned to see a fusillade of bulletspock the snow a few feet to his left.They weren't kidding, and they weren't patient.The refugee children were prisoners here.  And Anna?Was Anna inside there too?Please, God, I hope she's all right.  I hope she's alive.He didn't know whether to wish she was inside--or to pray she wasn't.Ben turned around and headed back down the mountainside."Well, I see you're more aware now," Lenz said, smiling brightly.  Hestopped at the foot of her bed and clasped his hands in front of him."Perhaps now you'd like to say to whom you've told my real identity.""Screw you," she said."I thought not," he said equably.  "Once the ketamine has worn off"-heglanced at his gold watch--"which will be in no more than another halfan hour, certainly, you'll be infused intravenously with about fivemilligrams of a powerful opioid called Versed.  You have had thisbefore?  During surgery, perhaps?"Anna gazed at him blankly.He continued, unruffled.  "Five milligrams is about the proper dose tomake you relaxed but still responsive.  You'll feel a little rush, butthis passes in ten seconds or so, and then you'll feel calmer thanyou've ever felt before in your life.  All your anxiety will seep out ofyou.  It's a wonderful feeling."He cocked his head to one side like a bird.  "If we were to inject youwith one single bolus of this drug, you'd stop breathing and veryprobably die.  So we must titrate it slowly over eight to ten minutes.We certainly don't want anything to happen to you."Anna gave a grunt that communicated, she hoped, both skepticism andsarcasm at once.  Despite her chemically induced calm, she was at thesame time deeply frightened."Rather, you'll be found dead in your wrecked rental car, another victimof drunk driving--""I didn't rent a car," she slurred."Oh, in fact you did.  Or rather, it was done for you, using your creditcard.  You were arrested last night in a neighboring town.  Your bloodalcohol level was measured at two-point-five, which is surely why yougot into an accident.  You were kept overnight in a holding cell andthen released.  But you know how it is with problem drinkers--they neverlearn."She displayed no reaction.  But her mind raced, desperate to find a wayout of the maze.  There had to be flaws in his plan, but where?Lenz continued, "Versed, you see, is the most effective truth serum everinvented, even though it was not intended for this use.  All the drugsthe CIA has tried, like sodium pentothol or scopolamine, they neverworked.  But with the correct dose of Versed you'll become so free ofinhibitions that you'll tell me anything I want to know.  And here's themagical thing: afterward you'll remember nothing.  You'll talk and talkquite lucidly and yet, from the moment you're put on the IV, you'll haveno memory of what happened.  It's really quite remarkable."A nurse entered the room, wide-hipped and squat and middle-aged.  Sherolled in a cart of equipment tubes, blood-pressure cuffs, syringes andbegan setting up.  She watched Anna suspiciously as she filled a few ofthe syringes from little vials and then applied preprinted labels tothem."This is Gerta, your nurse-anesthetist.  She is one of our best.  Youare in good hands."  Lenz gave Anna a little wave as he left the room."How are you feeling?"  Gerta asked perfunctorily, in a stern contralto,as she hung a bag of clear liquid on the IV stand to the left of Anna'sbed."Pretty ... groggy ..."  Anna said, her voice trailing off, her eyesfluttering closed.  But she was hyper-vigilant; now she had a tentativeplan.Gerta did something with what sounded like plastic tubing.  After a fewmoments she said, "All right, I'll come back.  Doctor wants to waituntil the ketamine is mostly out of your system.  If we start the Versednow you may stop breathing.  Anyway, I have to go to the anesthesiaworkroom.  This sat probe is no good."  She closed the door behind her.Anna opened her eyes and flung her body hard to the left, as hard as shecould, augmenting the push by throwing her manacled arms into it. It wasa movement she was beginning to master.  The bed seemed to jump severalinches toward the supply cart.  There was no time to rest.  One moretry, and she was there.She lifted her shoulders as far as the restraining belt would allow andpressed her face against the cold top edge of the cart.  Out of thecorner of her left eye she could see the safety pins, used to securebandages, in their little square blister-wrap sterile packaging, just aninch or two away.Yet still out of reach.If she turned her neck to the left as far as it would go, she couldalmost look at the pack of safety pins straight on.  The tendons on herneck and along her upper back were so strained they began to tremble.The ache quickly became excruciating.Then, like a jeering child, she stuck her tongue all the way out. Tinypinpoints of pain jabbed the underside of her tongue at its root.Finally she lowered her distended tongue to the surface of the cart asif it were a steam shovel.  It touched the plastic of the package, andshe slowly pulled her head backward, edging the pack along as she did,right to the edge of the cart.  Just before it could teeter off the edgeshe clenched it between her teeth.A footfall, and the door to her room came open.Quick as a rattlesnake she lay back on the bed, the little blister-packconcealed under her tongue, its sharp edges poking at its base.  Howmuch had she seen?  The nurse was coming toward her.  Anna gagged butkept the packet in her closed mouth in a pool of saliva."Yes," Gerta said, "ketamine can make you nauseated sometimes, it willdo that.  You're awake, I see."Anna made a complaining mmmmph through her shut mouth and shut her eyes.Saliva pooled behind her front teeth.  She forced herself to swallow.Gerta came around to Anna's right and began fumbling at the head of thebed.  Anna shut her eyes and tried to make her breathing sound regular.A few minutes later Gerta left the room again and closed the doorquietly behind her.She would be back much sooner this time, Anna knew.There was blood in her mouth from where the packet had cut into softtissue, and Anna moved it to her lips with her tongue and then spit itout, forward.  It landed squarely on the back of her left hand.  Shemoved her hands together and reached her right index finger over,pulling the safety-pin packet into her fist.Now she moved quickly.  She knew what she was doing, because she hadpicked these locks on more than one occasion when she had misplaced thekey and was too embarrassed to ask for a replacement.The wrapping came off with some difficulty, but then it was an easything to bend the safety pin's point away from its clasp.The left cuff first.  She inserted the pinpoint into the lock, pushedthe inner pins to the left, then to the right, and the lock clickedopen.Her left hand was free!She felt exhilarated.  Even more quickly now she freed her right hand,then the restraining belt, and then the door came open again with a lowsqueak.  Gerta had returned.Anna drew her hands back into the polyurethane cuffs so that theyappeared still to be fastened and closed her eyes.Gerta approached the bed.  "I could hear you moving in here."Heart pounding so loud it had to be audible.Anna opened her eyes slowly and made them look unfocused."I say enough is enough," Gerta said menacingly.  "I think you aremaking pretend."  Under her breath she added, "So we will have to takeour chances."God, no.She applied a rubber tourniquet to Anna's left arm until the vein poppedout, and inserted the intravenous needle, then turned her back to adjustthe flow clamp on the IV tubing.  In one snapping-turtle motion Annapulled her hands free of the unlocked cuffs and tried silently to undothe tourniquet, quiet, must be quiet, but Gerta heard the snap of therubber and turned around, and as she did Anna raised herself up off thebed as far as the chest belt would allow and caught the nurse's neckwith the crook of her right elbow, a strange gesture of affection.Pulled back hard on the rubber tube, hard against Gerta's fleshy neck.A yelp.Gerta flailed her hands, reached for her neck, tried to claw her fingersunder the garrote, could not get a purchase, her fingernails scratchingat her own neck, wriggling madly.  Her face purpled.  Her mouth gaspedand sucked for breath.  Gerta's fluttering hands slowed; she wasprobably losing consciousness.Within a few minutes Anna, almost numb from exertion, had the nursegagged and cuffed to the bed rail.  Springing open the ankle cuffs, sheslipped off the bed, her body feeling buoyant, and cuffed Gerta to theanesthesia machine as well, which would not easily move.She removed Gerta's key ring from her belt, and glanced at theanesthesia cart.It was full of weapons.  She scooped up a handful of packaged hypodermicneedles and several small glass ampules of various drugs, thenremembered she was wearing a hospital Johnny with no pockets.In the supply closet hung two white cotton doctor's jackets.  She putone on, stuffed the pilfered supplies in both slash pockets, and ranfrom the room.CHAPTER FORTY-THREE.The records office for the Semmering area occupied a small basement roomin a Bavarian-style building housing a scattering of municipal workers.There were rows of green filing cabinets, arranged by the number of theparcel of land."The Schloss Zerwald is not accessible to the public," the white-hairedwoman who ran the office said flatly.  "It is part of the SemmeringClinic.  Strictly private.""I understand that," Ben said.  "It's actually the old maps themselvesthat I'm interested in."  When Ben went on to explain that he was ahistorian researching the castles of Germany and Austria, she lookedvaguely disapproving, as if she'd just smelled something fetid, butordered her trembling teenage assistant to snap-to and pull out theproperty map from one of the drawers along the side wall of the room. Itwas a complicated-looking system, but the white-haired woman knewexactly where to find the documents Ben wanted.The map had been printed in the early nineteenth century.  The owner ofthe parcel of land, which in those days took up much of themountainside, was identified as J. Esterhazy.  A cryptic series ofmarkings ran through the parcel."What does this mean?"  Ben asked, pointing.The old woman scowled.  "The caves," she said.  "The limestone caves inthe mountain."Caves.  It was a possibility."The caves run through the Schloa's property?""Yes, of course," she said impatiently.Under the Schloss, that meant.Trying to contain his excitement, he asked, "Can you make a copy of thismap for me?"A hostile look.  "For twenty shillings.""Fine," he said.  "And tell me something: is there a floor plan of theSchloss anywhere?"The young clerk at the sporting goods shop examined the property map asif it were an insoluble algebra problem.  When Ben explained that themarkings indicated a network of caves, he quickly agreed."Yes, the old caves run right underneath the Schloss," he said.  "Ithink there even used to be an entrance into the Schloss from the caves,but that was long time ago and it must be blocked off.""Have you been in the caves?"The young clerk looked up, appalled.  "No, of course not.""Do you know anyone who has?"He thought a moment, "/a, I think so.""Do you think he might be willing to take me there, be my guide?""I doubt it.""Can you ask?""I'll ask, but I don't value your chances."Ben hadn't expected a man in his late sixties, but that was who enteredthe shop half an hour later.  He was small and wiry, with cauliflowerears, a long misshapen nose, a pigeon chest, ropy arms.  He spokerapidly and irritably in German to the clerk as he entered, then fellsilent when he met Ben.Ben said hello; the man nodded."He's a little old, frankly," Ben told the salesman.  "Isn't theresomeone younger and stronger?""There is younger but not stronger," the older man said.  "And no onewho knows the caves better.  Anyway, I am not so sure I want to dothis.""Oh, you speak English," Ben said, surprised."Most of us learned English during the war.""Do the caves still have an entrance into the Sc Moss"There used to be.  But why should I help you?""I need to get inside the Schloss.""You can't.  It is now a private clinic.""Still, I must get inside.""Why?""Let's just say it's for personal reasons that are worth a great deal ofmoney to me."  He told the old Austrian what he was willing to pay forhis services."We'll need equipment," the man said.  "You can climb?"His name was Fritz Neumann, and he had been caving around Sem me ringfor longer than Ben had been alive.  He was also immensely strong, yetnimble and graceful.Toward the end of the war, he said, when he was a boy of eight, hisparents had joined a Catholic workers' Resistance cell that was secretlyfighting the Nazis, who had invaded their part of Austria. The oldClockworks had been seized by the Nazis and turned into a regionalcommand post.Unknown to the Nazis who lived and worked in the Schloss, there was acrawl space off the basement of the old castle with a slot entrance to alimestone cave that ran beneath the castle's property.  The Schloss hadin fact been built over this mouth quite deliberately, because theoriginal inhabitants, concerned about attacks on their stronghold, hadwanted a secret exit.  Over the centuries the cave mouth had largelybeen forgotten.But during the war, when the Nazis had commandeered the Clockworks, themembers of the Resistance realized they were in possession of a crucialpiece of knowledge that would enable them to spy on the Nazis, to commitsabotage and subversion--and, if they were quite careful about it, to doit without the Nazis even realizing how it was done.The Resistance had spirited dozens of prisoners out of the Schloss, andthe Nazis had never figured out how.As an eight-year-old boy, Fritz Neumann had helped his parents and theirfriends, and he had committed the cave's intricate passages to memory.Fritz Neumann was the first off the ski lift, Ben close behind.  The skiarea was on the north face of the mountain.  The Schloss was on theopposite side, but Neumann had judged it easier to reach the mouth ofthe cave this way.Their skis had Randonee bindings, which allow the heel to go free forcross-country skiing but can be locked in for downhill.  Even moreimportant, the bindings allowed them to wear mountaineering bootsinstead of ski boots.  Neumann had outfitted them both: flexibletwelve-point cram pons favored by Austrian climbers on hard ice; Petzlheadlamps; ice axes with wrist leashes; climbing harnesses; pitons; andcarabiners.All easily obtained at the shop.The guns Ben wanted were not so easily found.  But this was huntingcountry, and quite a few of the old man's friends had handguns as wellas shotguns, and one of them was willing to make a deal.Wearing woolen balaclavas, windproof pants and gaiters, alpine climbingpacks, and thin polypropylene gloves, they cross-country skied to thesummit, then locked in their bindings for the long downhill stretch onthe south face.  Ben considered himself a good skier, but Neumann was aphenomenon, and Ben found it difficult to keep up as the older mannegotiated the virgin snow.  The air was frigid, and Ben's face, theexposed part anyway, quickly began to smart.  Ben found it amazing thatNeumann was able to lead the way through paths that were barely paths,until he saw the dashes of red paint on the occasional fir tree, whichseemed to mark the way.They had been skiing for twenty minutes when they came to a crevasse atthe beginning of the timberline, and shortly thereafter a steep gorge.They stopped about ten feet from the edge, removed their skis, andconcealed them in a copse."The cave, as I tell you, it is very difficult to get to," Neumann said."Now we rope down.  But you say you know how, yes?"Ben nodded, inspecting the cliff.  He estimated the drop at about ahundred feet, maybe less.  From here he could see Lenz's Schloss, so fardown the mountain that it seemed an architect's model.Neumann set out a neat butterfly coil of rope.  Ben was relieved to seeit was dynamic kern mantle rope, made of twisted nylon threads."It is eleven millimeters," Neumann said.  "It is O.K. for you?"Ben nodded again.  For a drop like this, that was just fine.  Whateverit took to reach Anna.From this angle, he couldn't see the mouth of the cave.  He assumed itwas an opening on the cliff face.Neumann knelt near the cliff edge by an outcropping of rock, and begandriving the pitons in with a hammer he took from a holster. Each pitongave off a reassuring ringing sound that rose in pitch the deeper it wasdriven in, indicating that it was sunk in solidly.Then, looping the rope around the largest rock, he pulled it through thepitons."This is not so easy to do, getting into the cave mouth," he announced."We'll rappel down and swing a little, maneuver into the cave.  Now weput on the cram pons and the harnesses.""What about the ice axes?""Not for here," he said.  "There's very little ice here.  For the cave.""There's ice in the cave?"But Neumann, busy unpacking, did not reply.Ben and Peter used to go caving near the Greenbriar, but the caves therewere little more than crawl holes.  He'd never had to deal with ice.For a moment he felt his stomach knot.  Until this point he had beenpropelled by adrenaline and anger and fear, focusing on one thing only:getting Anna out of Lenz's clinic, where he was convinced she'd beentaken.Now he wondered whether this was the best way.  Climbing wasn'tparticularly risky if you did it right, and he was confident of hisclimbing skills.  But even very experienced cavers had been killed.He had weighed storming the main gate, counting on the guards to seizehim, and thereby attracting Lenz's attention.But it was just as likely that the guards would shoot to kill.Hard as it was to accept, this cave was the only alternative.The two of them lashed the cram pons neoprene straps over the Vibramsoles of their weathered mountaineering boots.  These affixed twelvesharp spikes to the bottoms and toes of their boots, giving them serioustraction on the cliff side.  Then they attached the nylon climbingharnesses to their waists and they were ready to go."We use the dulfersitz, yes?"  Neumann said, using the Austrian argotfor rappelling without a rack, using only one's body to control thedescent."No rappel rack?"Neumann smiled, enjoying Ben's discomfort.  "Who needs it?"Without a rappel rack the descent would be unpleasant, but it saved themhaving to bring racks.  Also, they wouldn't be tied to the rope, makingthe rappel more dangerous."You will follow," Neumann said as he tied a double figure-eight knot atone end of the rope and then wrapped the rope around his shoulder,around his hip, and through his crotch.  He walked backward toward theedge, lifting the rope a bit, his feet spread widely, and then he wentover the side.Ben watched the older man dangling free, swinging slowly back and forth,facing the cliff, until he found a foothold.  From there, tensioning therope, Neumann moved his feet down the cliff face.  He descended a littlefarther, dangling in free space again, swaying back and forth, thenthere was a crunching sound, followed by a shout."O.K."  come on, now you!"Ben straddled the rope in the same manner, walked backward to the edge,held his breath, and dropped over the side.The rope immediately slid against his crotch, the friction creating apainful burn even through the windproof pants.  Now he remembered why hehated the dulfersitz.  Using his right hand as a brake, he descendedslowly, leaning back, his feet against the cliff, groping for footholds,maneuvering downward, playing the rope.  In what seemed like seconds, hespotted his target: a small, dark ellipse.  The mouth of the cave.Moving his feet down a few more meters, he came to the opening, andswung his feet inward.This wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped.  It wasn't a matter ofsimply dropping into the cave mouth; it was more complicated than that.The opening was flush with the sheer cliff face."Move in a little!"  Neumann shouted.  "Move in!"Ben saw at once what he meant.  There was a narrow inset ledge on whichhe would have to land.There was very little room for error.  The ledge was no more than twofeet wide.  Neumann was crouched on it, gripping a hand hold in therock.As Ben moved his body forward, into the cave, he began to sway backwardand forward as well.  He felt unstable, and he forced himself to hanguntil the swaying slowed.Finally he played out the rope, braking with his right hand, swayinginto the cave and then out again.  Finally, when he was both forwardjust enough and far enough down, he dropped to the ledge, cushioning theimpact by bending his knees."Good!"  Neumann shouted.Still gripping the rope, Ben leaned forward into the darkness of thecave and peered down.  Enough sunlight streamed in at an oblique angleto illuminate the peril just below.The first hundred or so feet of the entrance to the cave, a steepdownhill slant, was thickly coated with ice.  Worse, it was watered ice,slick and treacherous.  It was like nothing he had ever seen before."Well," Neumann called to him after a few seconds, sensing Ben'sreluctance.  "We can't stand here on this ledge all day, hmm?"Experience or no, negotiating that long icy slope was unnerving tocontemplate.  "Let's go," Ben said with all the enthusiasm he couldmuster.They donned their lightweight helmets and Velcro-strapped them intoplace, then their headlamps.  Neumann handed Ben a couple of hightechcarbon-fiber ice axes with curved picks.  One axe looped over each wristby means of a leash.  They dangled from Ben's hands like uselessappendages.With a nod, Neumann turned his back to the cave mouth, and Ben followedsuit, his stomach fluttering.  Each took one backward step, and theywere off the narrow ledge, their cram pons crunching into the ice.  Thefirst few steps were awkward.  Ben tried to maintain his balance,driving his cram pons deep into the ice, steadying himself until he hadbacked down far enough to grab the ice axes in each hand and chop intothe glossy surface.  He saw Neumann scrambling down the steep slope asif he were walking down a staircase.  The old man was a goat.Ben continued unsteadily, spider-crawling down, stomach to the ice,leaning his body weight on the wrist loops of the axes.  The crunch of aboot, the chop of the ice axe, then again, and again, and by the time hehad begun to achieve some sort of rhythm, he had reached the bottom,where the ice had given way to limestone.Neumann turned, slipped off his ice axes and cram pons and began tonegotiate the gentler downward slope.  Ben followed close behind.The descent was gradual, a spiral staircase through rock, and as theywent the beam of Ben's headlamp illuminated any number of passages thatdiverged to either side of them, branches he might easily have takenwere it not for Neumann.  There were no slashes of red paint here,nothing to separate the right path from the many wrong ones.  FritzNeumann was obviously navigating from memory.The air felt warmer than it had outside, but Ben knew this was deceptiveThere was permanent ice on the walls of the cave, which indicated thetemperature was below freezing, and the water that ran underfoot wouldsoon make it feel even colder.  It was also extremely humid.The floor of the cave was strewn with rubble and coursed with runningwater.  Here and there, Ben almost lost his footing as the debris on thecave floor shifted.  Soon the passage broadened into a gallery, andNeumann stopped for a moment, turning his head slowly, his helmet lampilluminating the breathtaking formations.  Some of the stalactites werefragile soda straws, slender and delicate, tapering to points as sharpas knitting needles; too, there were the banded calcite stumps ofstalagmites, the occasional column formed by the meeting of a stalactiteand a stalagmite.  Water oozed down the walls and seeped down thestalactites, the steady drip-drip-dripping into water on the cave floorthe only noise in the eerie silence.  Hardened flowstone formedterraces, and translucent sheets of calcite hung down from the ceilinglike drapery, their edges serrated and sharp.  Everywhere was the acridammonia stench of bat guano."Ah, look!"  Neumann said, and Ben turned to see the perfectly preservedskeleton of a bear.  There arose a sudden papery thunder of hundreds ofbatwings; a cluster of hibernating bats had been awakened by theirapproach.Now Ben began to feel the chill.  Somehow, for all his precautions,water had seeped into his boots, dampening his socks."Come," Neumann said, "this way."He led them into a narrow passage, one of several corridors off thegallery barely distinguishable from the others.  The ground graduallyrose up before them, the walls growing closer together, almost to abottleneck.  The ceiling was barely head-high; had Ben been any tallerthan his six feet, he would have had to stoop.  The walls here were icy,the seep water at their feet frigid.Ben's toes had begun to go numb.  But lithe Neumann scrambled up thesteep crevice with astonishing ease, and Ben followed more gingerly,stepping over the jagged rocks, knowing that if he lost his footinghere, the tumble would be nasty.Finally the ground seemed to level off.  "We're about on the same levelas the Schhss now," Neumann said.Then without warning the narrow passage came to a dead end.  Theystopped at what appeared to be a blank wall, in front of which was apile of rubble, evidently the remains of a long-ago cave-in."Jesus," Ben said.  "Are we lost?"Without a word, Neumann scraped some of the rubble aside with his boot,exposing a rusty iron rod about four feet long, which he hoisted with aflourish."It's undisturbed," Neumann said.  "This is good for you.  It has notbeen used for many years.  They have not discovered it.""What are you talking about?"Neumann took the iron rod, wedged it underneath a boulder, and leanedhis weight on it until the rock began to dislodge, revealing a smallirregular passageway no more than two feet high and three or four feetwide."During the war we'd move this rock back and forth to hide the finalpassage."  He pointed out grooves in the rock scored, Ben assumed,decades earlier.  "Now you're on your own.  I'll leave you here.  Thisis a very narrow crawl way and very low, but you can get through it, Ibelieve."Ben leaned closer and examined it with horrified fascination.  He felt awave of panic.This is a god damned coffin.  I don't think I can do it."You'll travel about, oh, maybe two hundred meters.  It's most of theway level, but then it goes uphill at the very end.  Unless it's cavedin since I was here as a boy, you'll come to a keyhole slot opening.""It opens right into the Schloss?""No, of course not.  The entrance is gated.  Maybe even locked. Probablyso.""Now you tell me."Neumann drew a rusty-looking skeleton key from a pocket of his old greenparka.  "I can't tell you for sure if this will work, but the last timeI tried it, it did.""The last time being fifty years ago?""More than that," Neumann admitted.  He extended his hand.  "Now I saygood-bye," he said solemnly.  "I wish you much luck."CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR.It was a formidably tight squeeze.  It must have taken real courage anddetermination for the Resistance fighters to make this final approach tothe Schloss, and do it repeatedly, Ben thought.  No wonder they had madeuse of a boy like the young Fritz Neumann, who could slip through thisspace easily.Ben had wriggled through crawl holes like this before, in the caves ofWhite Sulphur Springs, but never for more than a few feet before theybroadened out.  This, however, appeared to be hundreds of yards long.Only now did he fully understand what veteran cavers meant when theyinsisted that their subterranean pursuit allowed them to face downprimordial terrors--the fear of darkness, of falling into the void, ofbeing trapped in a maze, of being buried alive.But there was no choice, certainly not now.  He thought only of Anna andsummoned up the will.He entered the hole, headfirst, feeling a cold rush of air.  At itsopening, the passage was about two feet high, which meant that the onlyway to move through it was to slither on his stomach like an earthworm.He removed his pack and pushed off with his feet, pulling with his arms,nudging his pack ahead of him.  There was an inch or two of frigid wateron the tunnel floor.  Quickly his pants became soaked through.  Thetunnel angled sharply one way, then another, forcing him to contort hisbody.Then, at last, the passageway began to widen, its ceiling rising to fourfeet, enabling him to lift his numbed belly out of the ice water, get tohis feet, and stoop-walk.It was not long, though, before his back began to ache, and rather thancontinue he stopped for a moment and set down the pack, resting hishands on his thighs.When he was able to go farther, he noticed that the ceiling was loweringagain, back to two, maybe three feet high.  He got onto his hands andknees and began scuttling along like a crab.But not for long.  The rocky floor bruised his kneecaps.  He attemptedto ease the stress by putting his weight on his elbows and toes instead.When he wearied of that, he continued crawling.  The ceiling becamelower still, and he turned onto his side, pushing with his feet andpulling with his arms along the winding tunnel.Now the ceiling height had diminished to no more than eighteen inches,scraping against his back, and he had to stop for a moment to suppress awave of panic.  He was back to belly-crawling again, only this timethere was no end in sight.  His headlamp shone a beam for twenty feet orso, but the coffin-sized, even coffin-shaped tunnel seemed to go on andon.  The walls seemed to narrow.Through the scrim of his fear, he observed that the passage appeared tobe winding slowly uphill, that water no longer pooled on the floor,though it was still damp, and that, horribly, rock was now scrapingagainst both his stomach and his back.He continued pushing his pack ahead of him.  The tunnel was now barelytwelve inches high.Ben was trapped.No, not trapped, not yet, exactly, but it certainly felt that way.Terror overwhelmed him.  He had to squeeze himself through.  His heartraced, his body flooded with fear, and he had to stop.The worst thing, he knew, was to panic.  Panic caused you to freeze up,lose flexibility.  He breathed slowly in and out a few times, thenexhaled completely to reduce his chest diameter so he could fit throughthe passage.Sweating and clammy, he forced himself to squirm ahead, trying to focuson where he was going and why, how crucial it was.  He thought ahead, towhat he would do once he got into the Schloss.The uphill slope was becoming steeper.  He inhaled and felt the wallspress in on his chest, keeping him from filling his lungs with air. Thisprompted a surge of adrenaline, which made his breathing fast andshallow, made him feel as if he were about to suffocate, and he had tostop once again.Don't think.Relax.No one else knew he was down here.  He would be buried alive here inthis pitch-black hell where there was no day or night.Ben found himself listening to this voice with skepticism, as hisbraver, better self now assumed command of his brain.  He began to feelhis heart slow, felt the delicious cold air hit the bottom of his lungs,felt calm spread through his body like ink on a blotter.Steadily now, with an inner serenity, he urged his body along, earthwormed wriggled, ignoring the chafing of his back.Suddenly the ceiling soared upward and the walls widened, and he got tohis aching hands and knees and crawled up the incline.  He had arrivedat a sort of twilit grotto, where he was able to stand fully, blessedly,upright.He was aware of the faintest glimmering of light.It was a very dim and distant light, but to him it seemed almost asbright as day, as joy-inspiring as sunrise.Directly ahead of him was the cave exit, and it was indeed shaped alittle like a keyhole.  He scrambled up a scree pile, then sort of halfmantled himself into the lip of the opening, pushing down with bothhands until he could support his body on rigid arms.There he saw the close-set rusted iron bars of an ancient gate that wasfitted into the irregular cave mouth as tightly as a manhole cover.  Hecould not make out what lay behind the gate but he could see an oblongshaft of light, as if from under a door.He drew out the skeleton key Neumann had given him, inserted it into thelock, and turned it.Tried to turn it.But it would not turn.  The key would not move.The lock was rusted shut.  That had to be it; the old lock hadn't beenreplaced, at least not for decades.  The entire thing, he saw, was onesolid mass of rust.  He wriggled the key back and forth again, but itwould not turn."Oh, my God," Ben said out loud.He was done for.This was the one thing neither he nor Neumann had anticipated.He could see no other way in.  Even if he had the tools, there was noway to dig around the gate; it was embedded in solid rock.  Would he nowhave to somehow climb back out?Or maybe ... Maybe one of the bars was so rusted through that he couldpush it out.  He tried that, banging his gloved fist against the ironbars until the pain was too great, but no: the gate was solid.  The rustwas only on the surface.In desperation, he grabbed the bars and rattled them, like an enragedlifer in San Quentin, and suddenly there was a metallic clatter.One of the hinges had broken off.He rattled again, harder, until another hinge popped off.He kept rattling, exuberantly, and finally the third and last hinge fellto the ground.He grabbed the gate with both hands, lifted it up and pushed it forward,and gently lowered it to the ground.He was inside.CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE.Ben felt something hard and smooth and dusty: it was a solid iron door,secured by a heavy latch.  He lifted the latch and pushed at the door,and the door gave a brief high screech.  Obviously it hadn't been openedin decades.  He pushed with all his weight.  With a moan, the door gaveway.He found himself in a larger space of some sort, though it was stillsmall.  His eyes, used to the dark, began to discern shapes, and hefollowed the narrow shaft of light to another door, where he felt aroundon either side for a light switch.He found the switch, and a light came on from a single bulb mounted onthe ceiling.He was, he could see, in a small storage closet.  The stone walls werelined with steel shelves painted an indeterminate beige, holding oldcardboard boxes, wooden crates, and cylindrical metal tanks.He removed his helmet and woolen cap, then the pack from his back, fromwhich he took both of the semiautomatic pistols, placing everything butthe weapons on one of the shelves.  He slipped one of the weapons underthe waistband of his heavy pants, at the small of his back.  The otherhe held while he studied the photocopied floor plan.  No doubt the placehad been restored since its clock factory days, but it was unlikely thatthe basic plan had been much changed, or that the massive walls had beenmoved.He tried the doorknob.  It turned easily, and the door opened.He emerged into a brightly lit corridor with stone floors and vaultedceilings.  There was no one in view.Arbitrarily, he turned right.  The Vibram soles of his mountaineeringboots muffled his footsteps.  Except for the slight squish of wetleather, his walk was silent.He had not gone far before someone appeared at the end of the hall,striding directly toward him.Keep calm, he told himself.  Act as if you belong.This was not easy, dressed as he was in his wet, mud-crusted climbingattire and heavy boots, his face still bruised and scratched from theincident in Buenos Aires.Quickly, now.On his left was a door.  He stopped, listened for a moment, and thenopened it, hoping what lay beyond was unoccupied.As he ducked into the room, the figure passed by, a man dressed in awhite tunic or jumpsuit.  A handgun was holstered at his waist.Obviously a guard.The room was perhaps twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide.  By thelight from the corridor he could see that this was another storeroom,also lined with metal shelves.  He located a switch and turned on thelight.What he saw was too horrific to be real, and for a moment he was surehis eyes had been deceived by some sort of nightmarish optical illusion.But it was no illusion.God in heaven, he thought.  This can't be.He could barely stand to look, yet he couldn't turn his eyes away.On the shelves were rows of dusty glass bottles, some as small as theMason canning jars Mrs.  Walsh used to preserve fruit in, some two feettall.Each bottle held a fluid of some kind, which Ben assumed to be apreservative such as formalin, slightly cloudy with age and impurities.And floating in them, like pickles in brine, one to a bottle ... No,this could not be.He felt his skin erupt in gooseflesh.In each bottle was a human baby.The bottles were arrayed with ghastly precision.In the smallest were tiny embryos, at the earliest stage of gestation,little pale pink prawns, translucent insects with grotesque large headsand tails.Then fetuses not much longer than an inch: hunched, stubby arms andoversized heads, suspended in the shrouds of their amniotic sacs.Fetuses not much bigger but looking more human, bent legs and wavingarms, eyes like black currants, floating in perfectly round sacssurrounded by the ragged halo of the chorionic sac.Miniature infants, eyes closed, sucking thumbs, a tangle of tinyperfectly formed limbs.As the bottles increased in size so did their contents, until in thelargest bottles floated full-term babies, ready to be born, eyes closed,arms and legs splayed, little hands waving or clenched, severedumbilical cords floating loose, swathed in translucent wisps of amnioticsac.There must have been a hundred embryos and fetuses and babies.Each bottle was labeled in German, in neat calligraphy, with a date (thedate ripped from the womb?), prenatal age, weight in grams, size incentimeters.The dates ranged from 1940 to 1954.Gerhard Lenz had done experiments on human babies and children.It was worse than he'd ever imagined.  The man was inhuman, a monsterBut why were these ghastly exhibits still here?It was all he could do not to scream.He stumbled toward the door.On the facing wall were glass tanks, from a foot to almost five feettall and two feet around, and in them floated not fetuses but smallchildren.Small wizened children, from tiny newborns to toddlers to children sevenor eight years old.Children, he guessed, who had been afflicted with the premature-agingsyndrome known as progeria.The faces of little old men and women.His skin prickled.Children.  Dead children.He thought of the poor father of Christoph in his gloomy apartment.My Christoph died happy.A private sanatorium, the woman at the foundation had said.Exclusive, private, very luxurious, she'd said.He turned, lightheaded, to leave the room, and heard footsteps.Carefully peering out of the doorway he saw another white-suited guardapproaching, and he backed into the room, concealed himself behind thedoor.As the guard passed, he cleared his throat loudly, and he heard thefootsteps halt.The guard, as Ben had expected, entered the room.  Swift as a cobra, Benlunged, slamming the butt of his revolver into the back of the guard'shead.  The man collapsed.Ben shut the door behind him, placed his fingers on the guard's neck andfelt the jugular vein pulse.  Alive but unconscious, though undoubtedlyfora good long while.He removed the man's holster and pulled out the Walther PPK, thenstripped off the white jumpsuit.He removed his clammy clothes and donned the uniform.  It was too largefor him, but acceptable.  Fortunately the shoes fit.  With his thumb heflicked at the left of the Walther's slide and removed the magazine. Alleight brass cartridges were there.Now he had three handguns, an arsenal.  He checked the pockets of theguard's jumpsuit and found only a pack of cigarettes and a keycard,which he took.Then he returned to the corridor, pausing only to make sure no one elsewas in sight.  Farther down the hall he came on the brushed steeldouble-doors of a large elevator, modern for this ancient building.  Hepressed the call button.A ping, and the doors opened immediately to reveal an interior linedwith protective gray quilting.  He entered, inspected the panel, and sawthat a key-card had to be inserted before the elevator would move. Heinserted the guard's card, then pressed the button for the first floor.The doors closed rapidly, the elevator jolted upward, and opened a fewseconds later onto another world entirely.It was a brightly lit, ultramodern-looking corridor that could have beenin any prosperous corporate headquarters.The floors were carpeted in neutral industrial gray, the walls not theancient stone of the floor below but smooth white tile.  A couple of menin white coats, doctors or clinicians perhaps, passed by.  One waspushing a metal cart.  The other glanced at Ben but seemed to lookthrough him.He strode purposefully down the hall.  Two young Asian women, also inwhite jackets, stood by an open door to what appeared to be alaboratory, speaking a language Ben did not recognize.  Absorbed inconversation, they paid no attention to him.Now he entered a large atrium, well lit by a combination of softincandescent light and amber late-afternoon sun that filtered in throughcathedral windows.  This looked like it was once the grand entrance hallof the Schloss, artfully converted to a modern lobby.  A graceful stonestaircase wound upstairs.  There were a number of doors in the lobby.Each was marked, in black type on white placards, with a number andletter, each accessible only by inserting a card into a card-reader.Each door probably led to a corridor.A dozen or so people were passing through, to and from the hallways, upor down the stairs, to the bank of elevators.  Most wore lab coats,loose-fitting white pants, white shoes or sneakers.  Only the guards, intheir jumpsuits, wore heavy-duty black shoes.  A man in a white coatpassed by the two Asian women and said something; the two women reversedcourse, back toward the laboratory.  Obviously the man was someonesenior, someone in charge.Two orderlies carried a stretcher across the lobby, on which an old manin a pale blue hospital gown lay still.Another patient in a hospital Johnny came through the lobby, moving fromcorridor 3A to corridor 2B.  This was a vigorous-looking youngmiddle-aged man of around fifty who hobbled as if he were in great pain.What the hell was all this?If Anna was indeed here, where was she?This clinic was far larger, far busier, than he had imagined.  Whateverthey were doing whatever the purpose was of those nightmarish specimensin the basement, if indeed they had any bearing on the work being donehere there were a lot of people involved, both patients and doctors orlaboratory researchers.She's in here somewhere, I know she is.But is she safe?  Alive?  If she'd discovered whatever horrible thingwas being done here, would they have let her live?Must go.  Must move it.He walked through the atrium hurriedly, his face stern, a security guarddispatched to check out a disturbance.  He stopped at the entrance tocorridor 3B and inserted his key-card, hoping it gave him access to thisarea.The door lock clicked.  He entered a long white corridor that could havebeen in any hospital anywhere.Among the many people passing by was a white-uniformed woman, presumablya nurse, who appeared to be walking a small child on a leash.It was as if she were walking a large, obedient dog.Ben looked at the child more closely and realized from the papery skin,the wrinkled and wizened face, that this was a little boy afflicted withprogeria, looking very much like the child in the photographs in thefather's apartment he had so recently visited.  He also looked like thefull-gj-own children, preserved in formaldehyde, in that nightmarishbasement room.The boy walked like an old man, his gait wide-legged and rickety.Ben's fascination cooled to an icy anger.The boy stopped in front of a door and waited patiently while the womanholding the leash unlocked the door with a key on a loop around herneck.  The door led into a large glassed-in area fully visible from thehall.The long room behind the plate glass could have been a hospital nursery,except that everyone inside was a progeric.  There were seven or eightlittle wizened children here.  At first glance, Ben thought they were onleashes, too; on closer inspection, he saw that each was connected tosome sort of clear plastic tube coming from his or her back.  The tubeswere connected to shiny metal columns.  It appeared that each child wasbeing kept on an intravenous drip through the tubing.  They had noeyebrows or eyelashes, their heads were small and shriveled, their skincrepey.  The few who were walking shuffled like old men.Some squatted on the floor, quietly absorbed in games or puzzles.  Twoof them were playing together, their tubes entangled.  A little girlwith a long blond wig wandered aimlessly about the floor, chanting ortalking to herself, her words inaudible.The Lenz Foundation.A few selected progeric children were invited each year to the clinic.No visitors were allowed.This was no summer camp, no retreat.  The children were being treatedlike animals.  They were, they had to be, human subjects in some sort ofexperiment.Children in the basement pickled in formaldehyde.  Children beingtreated like dogs.A private sanatorium.This was neither a sanatorium nor, he was sure, a clinic.Then what was it?  What kind of "science" was being done here?Nauseated, he turned and continued down the hall until it came to anend.  To his left was a red door, locked, accessible only by keycard.Unlike most of the other hallway doors he'd seen here, this door had nowindow.The door was unmarked.  He knew he had to find out what lay behind it.Ben inserted the guard's key-card, but this time it did nothing.Apparently this door required a different level of access.Just as he turned away, the door came open.A man in a white coat emerged, clutching a clipboard, a stethoscopedangling out of one pocket.  A doctor.  The man glanced in curiously atBen, nodded, and held the door open for him.  Ben passed through thedoorway.He was not prepared for what he saw.He was in a high-ceilinged room as big as a basketball court.  Thevaulted stone ceiling and leaded stained-glass cathedral windowsappeared to be all that remained of the original architecture.  Thefloor plan indicated that this enormous chamber had originally been agrand private chapel as big as a church.  Ben wondered whether it hadlater been used as the main factory floor.  He estimated it was morethan a hundred feet long, maybe a hundred feet wide, the ceilings easilythirty feet high.Now it was clearly an immense medical facility.  Yet at the same time itlooked almost like a health club, at once well equipped and spartan.In one area of the room was a line of hospital beds, each separated fromthe other by a curtain.  Some of the beds were empty; on others, maybefive or six of them, patients lay supine, connected to some sort ofmonitor and IV stand.In another area was a long row of black treadmills, each equipped withan EKG monitor.  On a few of them elderly men and women were running inplace, electrodes or probes sprouting from their arms and legs, necksand heads.Here and there were nurses' stations, respirators, anesthesia equipment.A dozen or so doctors and nurses observed, assisted, or bustled about.All the way around the enormous room ran a catwalk, roughly twenty feetabove the floor and ten feet from the ceiling.Ben realized that he had been standing at the room's entrance for toolong.  In a guard's uniform, he had to act as if he were on assignment.So he walked, slowly and purposefully, into the room, checking one sideand then another.Sitting in a modern black-leather-and-steel chair was an old man.  Aplastic tube was attached to one arm and connected to an IV stand.  Theman was speaking on a phone, a folder of papers in his lap.  OhObviously he was a patient, but he was clearly engaged in some kind ofbusiness.In a few places the man's hair had the downy look of a newborn's. Aroundthe sides the hair was coarser, denser, and more luxuriant, white orgray at the ends, but growing in black or dark brown.And the man looked familiar.  His face was often on the cover of Forbesor Fortune, Ben thought.  A businessman or investor, someone famous.Yes!  It had to be Ross Cameron, the so-called "sage of Santa Fe."  Oneof the richest men in the world.Ross Cameron.  There was no question about it now.Seated next to him was a much younger man whom Ben recognized rightaway.  This was unquestionably Arnold Carr, the fortyish softwarebillionaire and founder of Technocorp.  Cameron and Carr were known tobe friends; Cameron was sort of Carr's mentor or guru, kind of afather-son relationship.  Carr, too, was hooked up to an IV; he also wasspeaking on the phone, obviously conducting business, though without anypapers.Two legendary billionaires, sitting side by side like a couple of guysin a barbershop.In a "clinic" in the Austrian Alps.Being infused with some kind of fluid.Were they being studied?  Treated for something?  Something bizarre wastaking place here, something secret and important enough to requirefully armed security, important enough to kill people over.A third man walked over to Cameron, said a few words in greeting.  Benrecognized the chairman of the Federal Reserve, now in his seventhdecade and among the most revered figures in Washington.Nearby, a nurse adjusted a blood pressure cuff on well, it had to be SirEdward Downey, but he looked the way he had when he was England's PrimeMinister, three decades ago.Ben kept walking until he reached the treadmills, where a man and awoman were running next to each other, talking, out of breath.  Theyeach wore gray sweatpants and sweatshirts and white running shoes, andboth had electrodes taped to their foreheads, the backs of their headsand necks, their arms and legs.  The threadlike wires coming out of theelectrodes rose neatly behind each of them, out of the way, connected toSiemens monitors that seemed to be recording their heart rates.Ben recognized both of them, too.The man was Dr.  Walter Reisinger, the Yale professor turned Secretaryof State.  In person, Reisinger looked healthier than he seemed on TV orin photographs.  His skin glowed, though that might have been a resultof the running, and his hair seemed darker, though it was probably dyed.The woman he was talking to on the next treadmill resembled SupremeCourt Justice Miriam Bateman.  But Justice Bateman was known to benearly crippled with arthritis.  During State of the Union addresses,when the Supreme Court filed in, Justice Bateman was always the slowest,walking with a cane.This woman--this Justice Bateman--was running like an Olympic athlete intraining.Were these people lookalikes of famous world figures?  Ben wondered.Doubles?  Yet that wouldn't explain the infusions, the training.Something else.He heard the Dr.  Reisinger clone voice saying something to the JusticeBateman clone about "the Court's decision."This was no clone.  This had to be Justice Miriam Bateman.So then what was this place?  Was this some sort of health spa for therich and famous?Ben had heard of such places, in Arizona or New Mexico or California,sometimes Switzerland or France.  Places where the elite went to recoverfrom plastic surgery, from alcoholism or drug dependency, to lose ten ortwenty pounds.But this--?The electrodes, the IV tubes, the EKG screens ... ?These famous people--all, except Arnold Carr, old--were being closelymonitored, but what for?Ben came upon a row of Stair Masters on one of which an ancient man wasmoving up and down at top speed, just as Ben regularly did at his healthclub.  This man, too--no one Ben recognized--was clad in gray sweats.The front of his sweatshirt was darkened with sweat.Ben knew young athletes in their twenties who couldn't sustain such agrueling pace for more than a few minutes.  How in the world was thisold man, with his wrinkled face and liver-spotted hands, able to do it?"He's ninety-six years old," a man's voice boomed.  "Remarkable, isn'tit?"Ben looked around, then up.  The person speaking was standing on thecatwalk, just above Ben.It was Jorgen Lenz.CHAPTER FORTY-SIX.A soft, low chime filled the air, melodic and sedate.  Jurgen Lenz,resplendent in a charcoal suit, blue shirt, and silver tie, under aneatly pressed white doctor's coat, strolled down wrought-iron stairs tothe main floor.  He glanced over at the treadmills and Stair Masters TheSupreme Court Justice and the former Secretary of State and most of theothers were beginning to finish their exercise sessions, dismount fromthe machines, nurses removing the wires from their bodies."That's the signal for the next helicopter shuttle to Vienna," heexplained to Ben.  "Time to return to the International Children'sHealth Forum they were so kind as to depart.  Needless to say, they'rebusy people despite their age.  In fact, I'd say because of their age.They all have much to give the world--which is why I've selected them."He made a subtle hand gesture.  Both of Ben's arms were suddenly grabbedfrom behind.  Two guards held him while another expertly frisked him,removing all three weapons.Lenz waited impatiently as the weapons were confiscated, like adinner-table raconteur whose tale has been interrupted by the serving ofthe salad course."What have you done with Anna?"  Ben asked, his voice steely."I was about to ask you the very same thing," Lenz replied.  "Sheinsisted on inspecting the clinic, and of course I couldn't refuse. Butsomehow, along the way, we lost her.  Apparently she knows somethingabout evading security systems."Ben studied Lenz, trying to determine how much of this was truth.  Wasthat his way of stalling, of refusing to bring him to her?  Was henegotiating?  Ben felt a surge of panic.Is he lying?  Fabricating a story he knows that I'll believe, that I'llwant to believe?Have you killed her, you lying bastard?Then again, that Anna might have disappeared to investigate what washappening in the clinic was plausible.  Ben said, "Let me warn you rightnow, if anything happens to her ""But nothing will, Benjamin.  Nothing will."  Lenz put his hands in hispockets, head bowed.  "We are in a clinic, after all, that is devoted tolife.""I'm afraid I've already seen too much to believe that.""How much do you really understand of whatever you've seen?"  Lenz said."I'm sure that once you truly grasp the work we're doing, you'llappreciate its importance."  He motioned for the guards to let Ben go."This is the culmination of a lifetime's work."Ben said nothing.  Escaping was out of the question.  But in fact hewanted to remain here.You killed my brother.And Anna?  Have you killed her, too?He became aware that Lenz was speaking.  "It was Adolf Hitler's greatobsession, you know.  The Thousand-Year Reich, and all that nonsensethough it lasted, what, twelve years?  He had a theory that thebloodlines of the Aryans had been polluted, adulterated, because ofinterbreeding.  Once the so-called 'master race' was purified it wouldbe extremely long lived Rubbish, of course.  But I'll give the oldmadman credit.  He was determined to discover how he and the Reich'sleaders could live longer, and so he gave a handful of his brightestscientists free rein.  Unlimited funds.  Do your experiments onconcentration-camp prisoners.  Whatever you like.""Made possible by the generous sponsorship of the greatest monster ofthe twentieth century," Ben said, biting off his words."A mad despot, let us agree.  And his talk of a thousand-year Reich waslaughable a deeply unstable man, promising an epoch of lastingstability.  But his pairing of the two desiderata longevity andstability was not ill-founded.""I'm not following.""We human beings are singularly ill-designed in one respect.  Of all thespecies on the planet, we require the longest period of gestation andchildhood of development.  And really, we must think about intellectualas well as physical development.  Two decades for complete physicalmaturation, often another decade or more to attain full professionalmastery in our area of specialization.  Somebody with a highly involvedcraft, such as a surgeon, may be well into his fourth decade before hehas achievedfull competence at his vocation.  The process of learning andprogressive mastery continues--and then, just as he reaches its height,what happens?  His eyes begin to dim, his fingers to lose theirprecision.  The depredations of time begin to rob him of what he spenthalf a lifetime acquiring.  It's like a bad joke.  We're Sisyphus,knowing as soon as we have rolled the boulder toward the top of thehill, it will start hurtling back down.  I'm told you once taughtschoolchildren.  Think how much of human society is devoted simply toreproducing itself--transmitting its institutions, its knowledge andskills, the struts and gearings of civilization.  It's an extraordinarytribute to our determination to win out over time.  And yet how muchfarther would our species have been able to advance if only itsleadership, political and intellectual, had been able to focus onadvancement, rather than simply self-replacement!  How much farther we'dall be if some of us were able to stay the course, mount the learningcurve and stay there!  How much farther we'd be if the best and thebrightest of us could keep that boulder rolling uphill, rather thanfending off the nursing home or the grave by the time the crest cameinto view!"A doleful smile.  "Gerhard Lenz, whatever we think of him, was abrilliant man," Lenz went on.  Ben made a mental note: was Jorgen Lenzreally Gerhard's son?  "Most of his theories never amounted to anything.But he was convinced that the secret to how and why human beings age wasin our cells.  And this was even before Watson and Crick discovered DNA,all the way back in 1953!  A remarkable man, really. So farsighted in somany ways.  He knew the Nazis would lose, and Hitler would be gone, andthe funds would dry up.  He simply wanted to make sure his work wouldcontinue.  Do you know why that was important, Benjamin?  May I call youBenjamin?"But Ben was transfixed, looking around the cavernous laboratory instupefaction, and did not answer.Because he was there and not there.He was entwined with Anna, their bodies slick and warm.  He was watchingher cry after he'd told her about Peter.He was sitting in a rural Swiss inn with Peter; he was standing overPeter's blood-soaked body."An extraordinary undertaking required extraordinary resources.  Hitlerprattled about stability while contributing to its destruction, and soit went with other tyrants in other parts of the world.  But Sigmareally could contribute to the pacification of the planet.  Its foundersknew what was necessary.  They were devoted to a single creed:rationality. The remarkable advances we'd seen over the past century intechnology had to be matched with advances in the management of our racethe human race.  Science and politics could no longer be relegated toseparate dominions."Gradually Ben focused.  "You're not making sense.  Technology proved anaid to the madness.  Totalitarianism depended on mass communication. Andscientists helped make the Holocaust possible.""All the more reason why Sigma was necessary as a bulwark against thatsort of madness.  You can understand that, can't you?  A single madmanhad driven Europe to the brink of anarchy.  On the other side of a greatland mass, a small band of agitators had turned an empire secured byPeter the Great into a seething cauldron.  The insanity of the mobamplified the insanity of the individual.  That's what the century hadtaught us.  The future of Western civilization was too important to restin the hands of the mobs.  The aftermath of the war had left a vacuum, apowerful one.  Civil society was everywhere in disarray.  It fell upon asmall group of powerful, well-organized men to impose order.  Indirectrule.  The levers of power were to be manipulated, even as thatmanipulation would be carefully camouflaged by the officialinstrumentalities of governance.  Enlightened leadership was necessaryleadership behind the scenes.""And what was to guarantee that the leadership was going to beenlightened?""I told you.  Lenz was a farsighted man, and so were the industrialistshe allied with.  Again, it comes down to the marriage of science andpolitics: one would have to heal and strengthen the other."Ben shook his head.  "That's something else that doesn't make sense.These businessmen were folk heroes, many of them.  Why would they agreeto consort with the likes of Strasser or Gerhard Lenz?""Yes, this was an extremely inclusive group.  But perhaps you forgetyour own father's indispensable role.""A Jew.""Doubly indispensable, one could say.  Substantial sums were transferredout of the Third Reich, and to do so without detection was a challengeof mind-numbing complexity.  Your father, who was quite a wizard in suchfinancial matters, rose to the challenge.  But, equally, the fact thathe was Jewish was exceedingly helpful in reassuring our counterparts in~ Allied nations.  It helped establish the fact that this wasn't aboutfurthering the Fuhrer's insanity.  This was about business.  And aboutbetterment."Ben gave him a frankly skeptical look.  "You still haven't explainedGerhard Lenz's special appeal to these businessmen.""Lenz had something to offer them.  Or, at that point, I should say thathe had something to promise.  The word had spread among the moguls thatLenz had made some extremely suggestive scientific breakthroughs in anarea of direct personal interest to all of them.  Based on somepreliminary successes, Lenz had, at the time, thought he was nearer thanhe in fact was.  He was flush with excitement, and the excitement wasinfectious.  As things turned out, the founders didn't survive tobenefit from his researches.  But all of them deserve credit for makingit possible.  Billions of dollars invisibly went to support theresearch--a level of support that made the Manhattan Project look like ahigh school lab class.  But now we touch on matters that may lie beyondyour grasp.""Try me.""No doubt your inquiries are purely disinterested, yes?"  Lenz saiddryly.  "Like Ms.  Navarro's.""What have you done with her?"  Ben asked again, turning toward Lenz asif coming out of a stupor.  He was beyond anger now.  He was in another,calmer place.  He was thinking about killing Jorgen Lenz, realizing withpeculiar satisfaction that he did in fact have it in him to kill anotherperson.And he was thinking about how he would find Anna.  I'll listen to you,you bastard.  I'll be civil and obedient and I'll let you talk until youtake me to her.And then I'll kill you.Lenz looked at him, unblinking, and then continued his explanation.  "Iexpect you've figured out the basic scenario.  Quite simply, what hiswork promised was the opportunity to explore the limits of mortality. Aman lives for a hundred years if he's lucky.  Mice only get two years.Galapagos tortoises can live two hundred years.  Now, why in the worldis that?  Has nature dictated these arbitrary limits?"Lenz had begun pacing slowly back and forth in front of Ben, his guardsstanding watch.  "Even though my father was forced to move to SouthAmerica, he continued to direct his research institute here longdistance.  Traveled back and forth several times a year.  In the latefifties one of his scientists made an intriguing discovery that everytime a human cell divides, its chromosomes, those tiny spindles of DNA,become shorter!  Microscopically shorter, yes, but still, measurably so.So what was it, exactly, that was getting shorter?  It took years todiscover the answer."  He smiled again.  "Father was right.  The secretreally was in our cells.""The chromosomes," Ben said.  He was beginning to understand.Father was Tight.He had an idea now where Max had gone."Just one tiny part of the chromosomes, really.  The very tip of themlooks a little like those plastic tips at the end of shoelaces.  Wayback in 1938 those little caps had been discovered, named 'telomeres."Our team found that every time a cell divides, those little caps getshorter and shorter, until the cell starts to die.  Our hair falls out.Our bones get brittle.  Our spines curve.  Our skin wrinkles and sags.We get old.""I saw what you're doing to those children," Ben said.  "The progerics.I take it you're experimenting on them."  And who else are youexperimenting on?  "The world believes you invite them in for avacation.  Some vacation."  No, he chided himself, must remain calm. Hestruggled to control his rage, keep from showing it.Listen to him.  Lead him on."True, it's no vacation for them," Lenz agreed.  "But these poorchildren do not need vacations.  They need a cure!  It's reallyfascinating, you know, these little young-old people.  They're born old.If you took a cell from a newborn progeric child and put it side byside, under a microscope, with one from a ninety-year-old man why, evena molecular biologist couldn't tell the difference!  In a progeric,those little tips start out short.  Short telomeres, short lives.""What are you doing to them?"  Ben asked.  He realized his jaw achedfrom clenching it so hard so long.  A mental image flashed of theprogeric children in the bottles.Dr.  Reisinger and Justice Miriam Bateman, Arnold Carr, and the otherswere straggling out of the room, conversing."Those little shoelace tips, they're like tiny odometers.  Or timingdevices, say.  We have a hundred trillion cells in our bodies, and eachcell has ninety-two telomeres that makes ten quadrillion little clockstelling our body when it's time to shut down.  We're preprogrammed todie!"Lenz seemed unable to contain his excitement.  "But what if we couldsomehow reset the clocks, hmm?  Keep them from getting shorter?  Ah,that was the trick.  Well, it turns out that some cells--certain braincells, for instance--make a chemical, an enzyme, that fixes up theirlittle telomeres, rebuilds them.  All of our cells have the ability tomake it, but for some reason they don't--it's just switched off most ofthe time.  So ... what if we could turn that switch on?  Keep thoselittle clocks ticking?  So elegant, so simple.  But I'd be lying to youif I said this was easy to do.  Even with all the money in the world,and some of the world's most brilliant scientists to choose from, itstill took decades, and a number of scientific advances, like genesplicing."This was what the killings were about, wasn't it?A neat little irony, Ben thought.  People die so that others can livefar beyond their natural life span.Keep him talking, explaining.  Bury the rage.  Keep sight of the goal."When did you make your breakthrough?"  Ben asked."Around fifteen, twenty years ago.""And why hasn't anybody else caught up with you?""Others are working in the field, of course.  But we've got an advantagethey lack.""Unlimited funding."  Credit Max Hartman, he thought."That helps, certainly.  And the fact that we've been working on itpretty much nonstop since the forties.  But that's not the whole story.The big difference is human experimentation.  Every 'civilized' countryin the world has outlawed it.  But how much can you really learn fromrats or fruit flies, for God's sake.  We made our earliest advances byexperimenting on children with progeria, a condition that doesn't existelsewhere in the animal world.  And we still use progerics, as wecontinue to refine our understanding of the molecular pathways involved.One day we won't need them anymore.  But we still have so much tolearn.""Human experimentation," Ben said, scarcely concealing his revulsion.There was no difference between Jorgen Lenz and Gerhard Lenz.  To them,human beings--sick children, refugees, camp inmates--were nothing morethan lab rats.  "Like those refugee children in their tents, fenced inout there," Ben said.  "Maybe you brought them in under the guise of'humanitarianism."  But they're expendable too, aren't they?"  Herecalled words that Georges Chardin had spoken to him, and he said themaloud: "The slaughter of the innocents."Lenz bristled.  "That's what some of the angeli re belli called it, butit's a rather inflammatory description," he said.  "As such, it onlyimpedes rational deliberation.  Yes, some must die that others may live.A disquieting idea, no doubt.  But put away the veil of sentimentalityfor one moment and face the brutal truth.  These unfortunate childrenwould otherwise be killed in war, or die from the diseases of povertyand for what?  Instead, they are saviors.  They'll change the world.  Isit more ethical to bomb their homes, let them be machine-gunned down,let them die senselessly, as the 'civilized world' permits?  Or to givethem the chance, instead, to alter the course of history?  You see, theform of telomerase enzyme that our treatment requires is most readilyisolated from the tissues of the central nervous system the cells of thecerebrum and cerebellum.  The quantities are far richer in the young.Unfortunately, it cannot be synthesized: it's a complex protein, and theshape, the conformation, of the protein is crucial.  As with many suchcomplex proteins, they cannot be produced by artificial means.  And so... we must harvest it from human beings,""The slaughter of the innocents," Ben repeated.Lenz shrugged.  "The sacrifice troubles you, but it has not undulytroubled the world at large.""What do you mean?""You've no doubt heard the statistics the fact that twenty thousandchildren disappear every year.  People know, and they shrug.  They'vecome to accept it.  Perhaps it would provide a measure of consolation toknow that these children haven't perished for no reason.  It has takenus years to perfect our assays, techniques, dose levels.  There was noother way.  Nor will there be in the foreseeable future.  We need thetissue.  It must be human tissue, and it must be from juveniles.  Aseven-year-old's brain a quart and a half of quivering jelly is hardlysmaller than a grown-up's, but its yield of telomerase enzymes is tentimes as great.  It is the greatest, most valuable natural resource onearth, yes?  As your countrymen say, a terrible thing to waste.""And so you 'disappear' them.  Every year.  Thousands and thousands ofchildren.""Typically from war-torn regions where their life expectancy would bepaltry, anyway.  This way, at least, they do not die in vain.""No, they don't die in vain.  They die for vanity.  They die so that youand your friends can live forever, isn't that it?"  This is not a manyou argue with, Ben thought, but he was finding it increasinglydifficult to contain his outrage.Lenz scoffed, "Forever?  Please, none of us will live forever.  Allwe're doing is arresting the aging process in some cases, reversing itin others.  The enzyme enables us to repair much of the damage to theskin, the integument.  Reverse the damage caused by heart disease.  Asyet, this therapy can only occasionally restore us to the prime of ouryouth.  And even to give someone my age his forty-year-old body back istime consuming"These people," Ben said, "they all come here to... to become younger.""Only a few of them.  Most of them are public figures who can't changetheir appearance drastically without attracting attention.  So they comehere, at my invitation, to halt their aging, maybe undo some of thedamage that age has inflicted.""Public figures?"  Ben shot back mockingly.  "They're all rich andpowerful!"  He was beginning to understand what Lenz was doing."No, Benjamin.  They're the great ones.  The leaders of our society, ourculture.  The few who advance our civilization.  The founders of Sigmacame to understand this.  They saw that civilization was fragile, andthat there was only one way to ensure the continuity that it required.The future of the industrial state had to be protected, sheltered fromthe storms.  Our societies would only advance if we could push back thehorizon of human mortality.  Year by year, Sigma used whatever tools ithad at its disposal, but now the original goals can be advanced byother, more effective means good God, we're talking about something farmore effective than throwing billions of dollars at coups and politicalaction groups.  We're talking about the formation of a stable, lastingelite.""So these are the leaders of our civilizations ...""Precisely.""And you're the man who leads the leaders."Lenz responded with a thin smile.  "Please, Benjamin.  I have nointerest in boss-man theatrics.  But in any organization, there must bea... coordinator.""And there can only be one."A pause.  "Ultimately, yes.""And what of those who oppose your 'enlightened' regime?  I supposethey're purged from the body politic.""A body must purge toxins if it is to survive, Benjamin."  Lenz spokewith surprising gentleness."What you're describing isn't some Utopia, Lenz.  It's aslaughterhouse.""Your reproach is as glib as it is vacuous," Lenz returned.  "Life is amatter of trade-offs, Benjamin.  You live in a world where vastlygreater sums are spent on medications for erectile dysfunction than arespent on tropical diseases that claim the lives of millions every year.And what of your own personal decisions?  When you buy a bottle of DomPerignon, you have spent a sum of money that could have vaccinated avillage in Bangladesh, spared lives from the ravages of disease, yes?People will die, Benjamin, as a result of the decisions, the priorities,entailed by your purchase.  I'm quite serious: Can you deny that theninety dollars a bottle of Dom Perignon costs could have easily savedhalf a dozen lives, perhaps more?  Think about it.  The bottle willyield seven or eight glasses of wine.  Each glass, we can say,represents a life lost."  His eyes were bright, a scientist havingsolved an equation and moved on to another one.  "That is why I say thatsuch trade-offs are inevitable.  And once you understand that, you startto ask higher order questions: qualitative questions, not quantitativeones.  Here we have the opportunity to vastly extend the useful lifespan of a great humanitarian or thinker someone whose contribution tothe commonweal is inarguable.  Compared to this good, what is the lifeof a Serbian goatherd?  Of an illiterate child who would have otherwisebeen destined to a life of poverty and petty criminality.  Of a Gypsygirl who would otherwise spend her days picking the pockets of touristsvisiting Florence, her nights picking lice out of her hair.  You havebeen taught that lives are sacrosanct, and yet every day you makedecisions signifying an awareness that some lives are more valuable thanothers.  I mourn for those who have given their lives for the greatergood.  I truly do.  I genuinely wish that the sacrifice they made wasunnecessary.  But I also know that every great achievement in thehistory of our species has come at the cost of human lives.  "There isno document of civilization that is not simultaneously a document ofbarbarism": a great thinker said that, a thinker who died too young."Ben stood blinking, speechless."Come," Lenz said, "there's someone who wants to say hello to you.  Anold friend of yours."Ben gaped.  "Professor Godwin?""Ben."It was his old college mentor, long since retired.  But his postureseemed straighter, his once wrinkled skin was now smooth and pink.  Helooked younger by several decades than his eighty-two years.  JohnBarnes Godwin, emeritus historian of Europe in the twentieth century,was vigorous.  His handshake was firm."Good Lord," Ben said.  If he hadn't known Godwin, he'd have put his agein the early fifties.Godwin was one of the elect.  Of course: he was a behind-the-sceneskingmaker, he was powerful and extremely well connected.Godwin stood before him as mind-boggling proof of Lenz's achievement.They stood in a small antechamber off the great hall, which wascomfortably furnished with couches and easy chairs, throw pillows andreading lamps, and racks of newspapers and magazines in a variety oflanguages.Godwin seemed pleased at Ben's astonishment.  Jurgen Lenz beamed."You must not know what to make of all this," Godwin said.It took Ben a few seconds before he could think of a response.  "That'sone way of putting it.""It's extraordinary, what Dr.  Lenz has achieved.  We're all deeplygrateful to him.  But I think we're also aware of the significance, thegravity, of his gift.  In essence, we've been given our lives back. Notour youth so much as as another chance.  A reprieve from death." Hefrowned thoughtfully.  "Is it against nature?  Maybe.  The way curingcancer is against nature.  Emerson, remember, told us that old age is'the only disease.""His eyes gleamed.  Ben listened in stunned silence.In college, Ben had always addressed him as Professor Godwin, but now hechose not to address him by name at all.  He said simply, "Why?""Why?  On a personal level?  Do you have to ask?  I've been givenanother lifetime.  Perhaps even another two lifetimes.""Will you gentlemen excuse me?"  Lenz interrupted.  "The firsthelicopter is about to leave, and I must say good-bye."  He bustled,almost sprinted, out of the room."Ben, when you get to be my age, you don't buy green bananas," Godwinresumed.  "You don't take on book projects you don't think you'll liveto complete.  But think of how much I can do now.  Until Dr.  Lenzcalled, I'd felt as if I'd struggled and worked and learned for decadesto get where I am, to learn what I know, to gain the understanding Ihave--yet at any moment everything might be snatched away: "If youth butknew, if old age but could," right?""Even if all this is true--""You have eyes.  You can see what's in front of you.  Look at me, forGod's sake!  I used not to be able to climb the stairs at FirestoneLibrary, and now I can run."  Godwin, Ben realized, was not just asuccessful experiment, he was one of them---a conspirator with Lenz.Didn't he know about the cruelty, the murders?"But have you seen what's going on here--the child refugees on the lawn?Thousands of abducted children?  That doesn't bother you?"Godwin looked visibly uncomfortable.  "I'll admit there are aspects ofall this that I prefer not to know about, and I've always made thatclear.""We're talking about the ongoing murder of thousands of children!"  Bensaid.  "The treatment requires it.  Lenz calls it 'harvesting," a prettyword for systematic slaughter.""It's..."  Godwin faltered.  "Well, it's morally complex.  "Honestaturpitudo est pro causa bona."  "" "For a good cause, wrongdoing is virtuous," " Ben translated.  "Publilius Syrus.  You taught me that."Godwin, too.  He'd gone over; he'd joined Lenz.  "What's important isthat the cause has genuine merit."  He ambled over to a leather sofa.Ben sat facing him on the adjacent sofa."And were you involved in Sigma's cause in the old days as well?""Yes, for decades.  And I feel so privileged to be around for this wholenew phase.  Under Lenz's leadership, things are going to be verydifferent.""I gather not all your colleagues agreed.""Oh yes.  The angeli re belli Lenz calls them.  Rebel angels.  Therewere a handful of people who wanted to put up a fight.  Out of vanity orshortsightedness.  Either they never trusted Lenz, or they felt demotedby the fact that new leadership had emerged.  I guess a few of them hadqualms about the... sacrifices that had to be made.  Any time there's ashift in power, you've got to expect some forms of resistance.  But afew years ago, when Lenz allowed that his project would soon be readyfor actual trials, he made it clear the collective would have torecognize his leadership.  He didn't do it out of any sense ofself-interest, either.  It's just that some difficult decisions wouldhave to be made about who was going to be well, admitted into theprogram.  Inducted into the permanent elite.  The risk of factionalismwas too great. Lenz was the leader we needed.  Most of us recognizedthat.  A few didn't.""Tell me, does your plan ultimately call for making this treatmentavailable to everyone, to the masses?  Or just what he calls 'the greatones'?""Well, you raise a serious point.  I was flattered that Jurgen selectedme to be a kind of recruiter, as it were, for this august group ofworld... luminaries, I suppose.  The Wiedergeborenen, as Dr.  Lenz callsus the Reborn.  We're reaching out far beyond the Sigma rump group.  Ibrought Walter in, you know, and my old friend Miriam Bateman JusticeMiriam Bateman.  I've been charged with helping choose those who seemdeserving of it.  From around the world China, Russia, Europe, Africaeverywhere, without prejudice.  Except for a prejudice in favor ofgreatness.""But Arnold Carr's not much older than I am ...""In fact, he's really at the perfect age to begin these treatments.  Hecan stay forty-two for the rest of his very, very long life, if hechooses.  Or become the biological equivalent of thirty-two again." Thehistorian widened his eyes in wonderment.  "There are forty of us bynow.""I understand," Ben interrupted, "but ""Listen to me, Ben!  Good Lord, the other Supreme Court Justice we'vechosen, a great jurist who's also black, he's a sharecropper's son who'slived through segregation and desegregation both.  The wisdom he'saccumulated in his lifetime!  Who could ever replace him?  A painterwhose work is already transforming the art world how many morespectacular canvases might be in him?  Imagine, Ben, if history'sgreatest composers and writers and artists take Shakespeare, takeMozart, take "Ben leaned forward.  "This is insanity!"  he thundered, "The rich andpowerful get to live twice as long as the poor and powerless!  It's agod damned conspiracy of the elite!""And what if it is?"  Godwin shot back.  "Plato wrote of the philosopherking of the rule of the wise.  He understood that our civilizationadvances and retreats, advances and retreats.  We learn lessons only toforget them.  History's tragedies repeat themselves the Holocaust, andthen the genocides that followed, as if we'd all forgotten.  World wars.Dictatorships.  False messiahs.  Oppression of minorities.  We don'tseem to evolve.  But now, for the first time, we can change all that. Wecan transform the human species!""How?  Your numbers are tiny."  Ben folded his arms on his chest."That's another problem with elites."Godwin stared at Ben for a moment, then chuckled.  " "We few, we happyfew, we band of brothers' yes, it all sounds hopelessly inadequate tothe grand tasks, right?  But humanity doesn't progress through someprocess of collective enlightenment.  We progress because an individualor small team somewhere makes a breakthrough, and everyone elsebenefits.  Three centuries ago, in a region with a very high rate ofilliteracy, one man discovers calculus, or two men do and the course ofour species is changed forever.  A century ago, one man discoversrelativity, and nothing is ever the same.  Tell me, Ben, do you knowexactly how an internal combustion engine works could you assemble oneeven if I gave you the parts?  Do you know how to vulcanize rubber?  Ofcourse not, but you benefit from the existence of the automobile all thesame.  That's how it works.  In the primitive world I know we're notsupposed to use those words anymore but indulge me there's no greatchasm between what one tribesman knows and another.  Not so in theWestern world.  The division of labor is the very mark of civilization:the higher the degree of division of labor, the more advanced thesociety.  And the most important division of labor is the intellectualdivision of labor.  A minuscule number of people worked on the ManhattanProject and yet the planet was changed by it forever.  In the pastdecade, you had a few small teams decoding the human genome. Never mindthat most of humanity can't remember the difference between Nyquil andniacin they'll benefit all the same.  People everywhere are usingpersonal computers people who couldn't understand a scrap of computercode, don't know the first thing about integrated circuitry. The masterybelongs to the happy few, and yet the multitudes benefit. The way ourspecies advances isn't through vast, collective exertions the Jewsbuilding the Pyramids.  It's through individuals, through very smallelites, who discover fire, the wheel, or the central processing unit,and thereby change the very landscape of our lives.  And what's true inscience and technology can be true of politics, as well. Except thelearning curve here takes place over a far longer period of time. Whichmeans that by the time we've learned from our errors, we've beenreplaced by younger upstarts who make those errors all over again.  Wedon't learn enough, because we're not around long enough.  The peoplewho founded Sigma recognized this as an inherent limitation, one thatour species would eventually have to overcome if we were to survive. Areyou starting to see, Ben?""Keep going," Ben said, like a hesitant student."The efforts of Sigma our attempt to moderate the politics of thepostwar era were only the beginning.  Now we can change the face of theplanet!  Ensure universal peace, prosperity, and security, through thewise management and marketing of the planet's resources.  If that's whatyou call a conspiracy of the elite well, is it really such a bad thing?If a few miserable war refugees have to meet their maker ahead ofschedule in order to save the world, is that really such a tragedy?""It's only for the ones you judge worthy, right?"  Ben said.  "You wantto keep it from everyone else?  There will be two classes of humanbeing.""The ruled and the rulers.  But that's inevitable, Ben.  There will bethe Wise Men and the ruled masses.  That's the only way to engineer aviable society.  The world's already overpopulated.  Much of Africadoesn't even have clean drinking water.  If everyone lives twice orthree times longer, think of what this will do!  The world wouldcollapse!  That's why, in his wisdom, Lenz knows it must only beavailable to the few.""And what happens to democracy?  The rule of the people?"Godwin's cheeks colored.  "Spare me the sentimental rhetoric, Ben.  Thehistory of man's inhumanity to man has been history itself: mobsdestroying what the nobility had painstakingly constructed.  The maintask in politics has always been saving the people from themselves. Thiswouldn't go down well with the undergraduates, but the principle ofaristocracy was always correct: aristos, kratos rule of the best. Theproblem was that aristocracy often didn't give you the best.  Butimagine if for the first time in human history, you could rationalizethe system, create a hidden aristocracy based on merit withWiedergeborenen serving as the custodians of civilization."Ben stood up and paced.  His head spun.  Goodwin, spinning his giddyjustifications, had been hooked by the irresistible lure of nearimmortality"Ben, you're what, thirty-five, thirty-six?  You imagine you will liveforever.  I know I did at your age.  But I want you to imagine beingeighty five ninety, God willing you live so long.  You have a family,you havechildren and grandchildren.  You've had a happy life, your work ismeaningful, and although you have all the normal afflictions of old age""I'll want to die," Ben said curtly."Correct.  If you're in the condition of most people at that age.  Butyou don't ever have to be ninety.  If you begin this therapy now, you'llalways be in your prime, in your mid-thirties God, what I'd give to beyour age!  Please don't tell me you have some ethical objection to it.""I'm not sure what to think at this point," Ben said, watching Godwinclosely.Godwin seemed to believe him."Good.  You're being open-minded.  I want you to join us.  Join theWiedergeborenen."Ben sank his head into his arms.  "It's certainly a tempting offer." Hisvoice was muffled.  "You make some very good points ""Are you still here, John?"  interrupted Lenz's voice, loud andenthusiastic.  "The last helicopter's about to leave!"Godwin rose swiftly.  "I need to catch the shuttle," he apologized.  "Iwant you to think about what we discussed."Lenz entered with his arm around a stoop-shouldered old man.Jakob Sonnenfeld."Did you have a good talk?"  Lenz inquired.No.  Not him, too.  "You " Ben blurted out to the old Nazi hunter,revolted."I think we may have a new recruit," Godwin said somberly, and gave Lenza brief but significant look.Ben turned to face Sonnenfeld.  "They knew where I was going in BuenosAires because of you, isn't that right?"Sonnenfeld looked pained.  He averted his eyes.  "There are times inlife when one must choose sides," he said.  "When my treatment begins ""Come, gentlemen," Lenz interrupted again.  "We must hurry."Ben could hear the roar of a helicopter outside, as Godwin andSonnenfeld moved toward the exit."Benjamin," Lenz said without turning around.  "Please stay right there.I'm so glad to hear you may be interested in our project.  So now youand I must have a little talk."Ben felt something slam him from behind, and steel clamped against hiswrist.Handcuffs.There was no way out.The guards dragged him through the great hall, past the exerciseequipment and the medical monitoring stations.He screamed at the top of his lungs and let himself go limp.  If any ofthe Wiedergeborenen remained, they'd see him being abducted, and surelythey'd object.  These were not evil people.But none of them remained, at least no one he could see.A third guard took his upper arm and joined the others.  His legs andknees slid painfully against the stone floor, the abrasionsexcruciating.  He kicked and struggled.  A fourth arrived, and now theywere able to hold Ben by each limb, though he torqued himself back andforth to make it as difficult for them as possible, and he keptshouting.They trundled him into an elevator.  A guard pressed the second-floorbutton.  In seconds the elevator opened on to a stark white corridor. Asthe guards carried him out--he'd ceased resisting; what was the point?--a passing nurse gaped at him, then looked away quickly.They brought him into what looked like a modified operating room andhoisted him onto a bed.  An orderly who appeared to have been expectinghim--had the guards radioed ahead?--fastened colored restraints to hisankles and wrists, and then, once he was secured to the table, removedthe handcuffs.Exhausted, he lay flat, his limbs immobile.  All of the guards but onefiled out of the room, their work done.  The remaining guard stood watchby the closed door, an Uzi across his chest.The door opened, and Jorgen Lenz entered.  "I admire your cleverness,"he said.  "I'd been assured that the old cave was sealed or at leastimpassable, so I thank you for pointing out the security risk.  I'vealready ordered the entrance dynamited."Ben wondered: Did Godwin really invite him to join them?  Or was his oldmentor simply trying to neutralize him?  Lenz was far too suspicious totrust him anyway.Or was he?"Godwin asked me to join the project," Ben said.Lenz wheeled a metal cart over next to the bed and busied himself with ahypodermic needle."Godwin trusts you' Lenz said, turning around.  "I myself do not."Ben watched his face.  "Trusts me about what?""About respecting our need for confidentiality.  About who you or yourinvestigative friend might have already talked to."Here was his vulnerability!  "If you release her unharmed, you and I canstrike a bargain," Ben said.  "We each get what we want.""And, of course, I can trust you to keep your word.""It'd be in my own best interests," Ben said."People do not always act in their own self-interest.  If I were ever toforget it, the angeli re belli were there to remind me.""Let's keep it simple.  My interest is in having you release AnnaNavarro.  Yours is to keep your project secret.  We have a mutualinterest in striking a deal.""Well," Lenz said dubiously.  "Perhaps.  But first I'll need a littlechemically inspired honesty, in case you don't come by it naturally."Ben tried to suppress the wave of panic.  "What does that mean?""Nothing harmful.  A pleasant experience, in fact.""I don't think you have time for this.  Especially with law-enforcementagents due to arrive at any second.  This is your last chance to deal.""Ms.  Navarro is here on her own," Lenz said.  "She hasn't called inanyone else.  She told me so herself."  He held up the hypodermic. "AndI assure you she was speaking the truth."Keep conversing.  Keep him diverted."How do you know you can trust the scientists on your team?""I don't.  Everything, all the materials, the computers, the sequencers,the slides, the formulas for the infusions they're all here."Ben pressed.  "You're still vulnerable.  Somebody could get access towhatever offsite storage arrangements you've got for the data files. Andno encryption is unbreakable.""Which is precisely why there is no offsite storage," Lenz said, withevident satisfaction in demonstrating the fallacies in Ben'ssuppositions.  "That represents a risk I cannot afford.  In all honesty,I did not get where I am by placing excessive trust in my fellow man.""As long as we're both being honest, let me ask you something.""Yes?"  Lenz tapped Ben's left forearm until a vein popped up."I'd like to know why you had my brother killed."Lenz jabbed a needle into the vein with what seemed unnecessary force."It should never have happened.  It was done by fanatics among mysecurity people, and it's something I deeply regret.  A terriblemistake.  They were concerned that his discovery of Sigma's originalboard would imperil our work."Ben's heart thudded, and again he fought to control himself.  "And myfather?  Did your 'fanatics' kill him, too?""Max?"  Lenz looked surprised.  "Max is a genius.  I very much admirethe man.  Oh no, I wouldn't harm a hair on his head.""Then where is he?""Did he go somewhere?"  Lenz asked innocently.Move on."Then why kill all those other old men ... ?"There was a slight twitch under Lenz's left eye.  "Housecleaning.  Forthe most part, we're talking about individuals with personal involvementin Sigma who sought to resist the inevitable.  They complained thatSigma had fallen under my sway, felt displaced by my emerging role.  Oh,all our members were treated generously...""Kept on a string, you mean.  Given payments to fortify theirdiscretion.""As you like.  But it was no longer enough, not now.  What it came downto was a failure of vision.  The point remains that they declined to,shall we say, get with the program.  Then there were those who becameimportunate, possibly indiscreet, had long since ceased to have anythingto offer.  They were loose threads, and the time had come to snip them.Perhaps it seems harsh, but when there's this much at stake, you do notsimply give people a firm talking to, or spank their wrists, or put themin 'time-out," yes?  You take more definitive measures."Don't give up, Ben told himself.  Keep him engaged."Murdering these old men in itself seems a foolish risk, don't youthink?  The deaths were bound to attract suspicion.""Please.  All the deaths appeared to be natural, but even if the toxinwere discovered, these were men with plenty of worldly enemies "Lenz heard the sound at the same moment Ben did.A burst of machine-gun fire not far away.And then another, even closer.A shout.Lenz turned toward the door, hypodermic needle in one hand.  He saidsomething to the guard standing by the door.The door burst open in a hail of bullets.A scream, and the guard collapsed in a pool of his own blood.Lenz dropped to the floor.Anna!Ben's relief was enormous.  She's alive, somehow she's alive."Ben!"  she shouted, flinging the door shut behind her and turning thelock.  "Ben, you all right?""I'm all right," he called."Stand up!"  she screamed at Lenz.  "You god damned son of a bitch."She advanced, machine gun leveled.  She was wearing a doctor's shortwhite coat.Lenz stood.  His face was flushed, his silver hair mussed.  "My guardswill be here any second."  His voice quavered."Don't count on it," Anna replied.  "I've sealed off the entire wing,and the doors are jammed from the outside.""You've killed that guard, I think," Lenz said, bravado returning to hisvoice.  "I thought the United States trained its agents only to kill inselfdefense.""Haven't you heard?  I'm off duty," Anna said.  "Hands away from yourbody.  Where's your weapon?"Lenz was indignant.  "I have none."Anna approached.  "You don't mind if I look, do you?  Hands away fromyour body, I said."Slowly she took a step toward Lenz, slid her free hand inside hisjacket.  "Let's see," she said.  "I sure hope I can do this withoutsetting off the damned machine gun.  I'm not too familiar with theselittle guys."Lenz paled.She produced a small handgun from inside Lenz's suit with a flourish,like a conjurer pulling a rabbit out of a top hat."Well, well," she said.  "Pretty slick for an old man, Jurgen.  Or doyour friends still call you Gerhard?"CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN.Ben gasped, "Oh, my God."Lenz pursed his lips, and then, oddly, he smiled.Anna pocketed Lenz's handgun.  "For the longest time it baffled me," shesaid.  "The federal ID lab ran the prints but turned up nothing, nomatter how many databases they used.  They tried the army intelligencefiles, but still nothing.  Until they went back to the old ten-printcards from the war and a few years after, which haven't yet beendigitized, why should they be, right?  Your SS prints were included inthe Army's files, I guess because you escaped."Lenz watched her, amused."The techies speculated that maybe the prints on the photo I'd sent themwere old, but the strange thing was, the fingerprint oil, theperspiration residue they call it, was fresh.  Made no sense to them."Ben looked at Lenz.  Yes, he resembled the Gerhard Lenz who appeared inthe picture with Max Hartman.  Lenz in that 1945 photo was in hismid-forties.  That made him, what, over a hundred years old./( seemed impossible."I was my own first successful subject," Gerhard Lenz said quietly."Almost twenty years ago I was for the first time able to arrest, thenreverse, my own aging.  Only a few years ago did we devise a formulationthat works reliably on everyone."  He was looking off in the distance,his gaze unfocused.  "It meant that everything that Sigma stood forcould now be made secure.""All right," Anna interrupted.  "Give me the key to the restraints.""I don't have the key.  The orderly--""Forget it."  She shifted the machine gun to her right hand, pulled astraightened paper clip out of a jacket pocket, and freed Ben, handinghim a long plastic object, which he glanced at and understood at once."Don't move a muscle," Anna shouted, thrusting the Uzi in Lenz'sdirection.  "Ben, take those restraints and lock this bastard tosomething immobile."  She quickly looked around.  "We've got to get outof here as fast as possible, and--""No," Ben said, steely.She turned, startled.  "What are you--?""He's holding prisoners here--young people in tents outside, sick kidsin at least one of the wards.  We've got to let them out first!"Anna understood immediately.  She nodded.  "Fastest way is to shut downthe security system.  De-electrify the fences, unlock..."  She turned toLenz, adjusted the machine gun in her hands.  "There's a master controlpanel, an override, in your office.  We're taking a little walk."Lenz looked phlegmatic.  "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talkingabout.  All security for the clinic is controlled from the central guardstation on the first level.""Sorry," Anna said.  "I've already 'debriefed' one of your guards." Shepointed with the Uzi toward a closed door, not the one through whichthey'd entered.  "Let's go."Lenz's office was immense, dark, cathedral-like.Glimmers of pale light filtered in through slot windows cut into thestone walls high above their heads.  Most of the room was in shadows,except for a small circle of light from a green-glass-shaded librarylamp in the middle of Lenz's massive walnut desk."I assume you don't object to my putting on the lights so I can see whatI'm doing," Lenz said."Sorry," Anna said.  "We don't need it.  Just go around to the otherside of your desk and push the button that raises the control panel.Let's make this easy."Lenz hesitated but a moment, then followed her directions.  "This is apointless exercise," he said with weary contempt as he walked around tohis side of the desk.  She followed, sidling, the weapon always leveledat him.Ben came just behind her.  A second set of eyes in case Lenz attemptedsomething, as he was sure Lenz would do.Lenz pushed a recessed button at the front edge of the desk.  There wasa mechanical rumble, and a long, flat section arose from the middle ofthe desktop like a horizontal tombstone: a brushed-steel instrumentpanel, strange-looking atop the Gothic desk.Set into the steel was what appeared to be a flat plasma screen, onwhich nine small squares, glowing ice blue, were arranged in rows ofthree.  Each square display showed a different view of the interior andexterior of the Schloss.  Below the screen was an array of silver toggleswitches.In one display the progeric children played, tethered to their poles; inanother, refugees milled about around their tents on the snow, smoking.Guards stood by various entrances.  Other guards patrolled the grounds.Winking red lights every few feet along the electrified fences atop theancient stone walls, presumably showing that the system was stilloperational."Move it," Anna commanded.Lenz bowed his head indulgently, and began toggling each switch off inorder from left to right.  Nothing happened, no sign of the securitysystem shutting down.  "We will find other progerics," Lenz said as heswitched them off, "and there's an endless supply of youthful warrefugees, displaced children the world doesn't miss there always seemsto be a war somewhere."  This thought seemed to amuse him.The winking red lights had gone out.  A cluster of refugee children wasplaying a game near one of the tall iron gates.  One of them pointednoticing that the red power lights had stopped blinking?Another of them ran up to the gate, tugged at it.The gate slowly came open.Tentatively the child walked through the gate, looking back at theothers, beckoning.  Slowly another joined him, passing through the gateto freedom.  They appeared to be shouting to the others, though therewas no sound.Then a few more of the children.  A bedraggled-looking girl with mattedcurly hair.  Another young boy.More children.Frenetic movement.  The children began to scramble out, pushing andshoving.Lenz watched, his expression inscrutable.  Anna's attention was rivetedon him, the Uzi still pointed.In another screen, a door to the children's ward was now wide open.  Anurse appeared to be waving the children out, looking around furtively."So they are escaping," Lenz said, "but for you it will not be so easy.Forty-eight security guards have been trained to shoot any intruders onsight.  You will never make it outside."  He reached for a large ornatebrass lamp to switch it on, and Ben snapped to attention, sure that Lenzwas about to pick the lamp up to hurl or swing it, but instead Lenztugged at a protruding section of the base and pulled out a small oblongobject that he instantly pointed at Ben.  It was a compact, brass-platedpistol, cleverly concealed."Drop it!"  Anna shouted.Ben was a few feet to Anna's side, and Lenz could not cover them both."I suggest you put down your weapon at once," Lenz said.  "That way noone will be hurt.""I don't think so," Anna said.  "We're not exactly evenly matched."Lenz, unfazed, said blandly, "But you see, if you begin to fire at me,your friend here will be killed, too.  You must ask yourself howimportant it is to kill me--whether it's really worth it.""Drop the goddamn toy gun," Anna said, although Ben could see it was notoy."Even if you succeed in killing me, you change nothing.  My work willcontinue even without me.  But your friend Benjamin will simply bedead.""No!"  came a hoarse shout.An old man's voice.Lenz spun around to look."Lassen She ihn lost Lassen She mein en Sohn los!  Let him go!"The voice came from a corner of the great room that was hidden inshadows.  Lenz pointed his weapon toward the voice, then seemed toreconsider, and swung it back toward Ben.The voice again; "Let my son go!"In the dim light Ben could just make out the seated figure.His father.  In his hand was a gun, too.For a moment Ben couldn't speak.He thought it might be a trick of the strange oblique light, and helooked again, and knew that what he saw was real.Quieter now, Max's voice: "Let them both go.""Ah, Max, my friend," Lenz called, in a loud and hearty voice. "Perhapsyou can talk reason to these two.""Enough of the killing," Max said.  "Enough bloodshed.  It's over now."Lenz stiffened.  "You are a foolish old man," he replied."You're right," Max said.  He remained seated, but his gun was stilltrained on Lenz.  "And I was a foolish young man, too.  I was beguiledby you then, just as now.  All my life I've lived in fear of you andyour people.  Your threats.  Your blackmail."  His voice rose, chokedwith rage.  "No matter what I built or what I became, you were alwaysthere.""You can lower your gun, my friend," Lenz said mildly.  His weapon wasstill pointed at Ben, but for a split-second he turned to Max./ can rush him, tackle him to the floor, Ben thought.  The next time hisattention is diverted.Max continued as if he hadn't heard, and as if there were no one in theroom but Lenz.  "Don't you see I'm not afraid of you any longer?"  Hisvoice reverberated against the stone walls.  "I will never forgivemyself for what I did, for helping you and your butcher friends.  Formaking my deal with the devil.  Once I thought it was the right thing todo, for my family, for my future, for the world's.  But I was lying tomyself.  What you did to my son, ray Peter " His voice broke."But you know that should never have happened!"  Lenz protested.  "Itwas the work of overzealous security people who exceeded theirauthority.""Enough!"  Max bellowed.  "No more!  Enough of your god damned lies!""But the project, Max.  My God, man, I don't think you understand ""No, you don't understand.  You think I care about your dreams ofplaying God?  You think I ever did?""I invited you here as a favor to you, to make amends.  What are youtrying to tell me?"  Lenz's voice was controlled, but only barely."Amends?  But this is only a continuation of the horror.  For you,everything and everyone were sacrificed to your dream of livingforever."  A labored breath.  "You're about to take my only remainingchild from me!  After everything else you've taken from me.""Then your overtures were merely a ploy.  Yes, I'm beginning to see.When you joined us it was always with the intention of betraying us.""It was the only way I could gain entrance to a walled city.  The onlyway I could hope to monitor from within."Lenz spoke as if to himself.  "My mistake is always to imagine thatothers are as philanthropic as I am as concerned with the greater good.How you disappoint me.  And after all we've been through together, Max.""Ach!  You pretend to be interested in human progress," Max shouted."And you call me a foolish old man!  You talk of others as subhuman, butyou are yourself not human."Lenz briefly turned his gaze toward Max, seated in the dim corner, andat the same instant that Ben coiled to spring forward, he heard thehollow pop, the retort of a small-caliber pistol, and Lenz looked moresurprised than stricken as a small but widening red circle appeared onthe breast pocket of his white lab coat near his right shoulder. Aimingin Max's general direction, Lenz squeezed the trigger three times,returning fire wildly.Then a second blotch of red appeared on Lenz's chest.  His right armdangled uselessly at his side as his pistol clanked to the floor.Anna lowered the Uzi slightly, watched him.Suddenly Lenz lunged at Anna, knocking her to the floor, the Uziclattering.His hand was at her throat, squeezing her larynx in an iron clutch. Shetried to rear up, but he slammed her head back against the floor with anaudible crack.Again he slammed her head against the stone, and then Ben, enraged,leaped on top of Lenz, gripping the plastic cylinder she'd handed himearlier.  Ben roared with exertion and fury as he swung his right handup and jabbed the hypodermic needle directly into Lenz's neck.Lenz howled in pain.  Ben had hit the internal jugular vein, he couldtell, or had at least come very close to it, and he depressed theplunger.Lenz's expression of horror seemed frozen on his face.  His hands flewto his neck, found the syringe, yanked it out, and he saw the label."Verdammt nochmal!  Scheiss Jesus Christus!"A bubble of saliva formed at his mouth.  Suddenly he fell backward likean upended statue.  His mouth opened and shut as if he were trying toscream, but instead he only gasped for air.Then he went rigid.Lenz's eyes stared in fury, but the pupils were fixed and dilated."I think he's dead," Ben gasped, short of breath."I know he's dead," Anna said.  "That's the most potent opioid there is.They keep some pretty powerful stuff in their locked medicine cabinets.Now let's get out of here!"  She glanced at Max Hartman. "All of us,""Go," Ben's father whispered from his chair.  "Leave me here, but youtwo must go now, the guards ""No," Ben said.  "You're coming with us.""Dammit,"v Anna said to Ben.  "I heard the helicopter taking off, sothat's out.  How did you get in, anyway?""A cave under the property opens into the basement.  But they've foundit.""Lenz was right, we're done for, there's no way out ""But there is a way," Max said, his voice faint.Ben ran over to him, stricken by what he saw.Max, dressed in a pale blue hospital Johnny, was feebly holding hishands to the base of his throat, where, as Ben now realized, a bullethad lodged.  Blood was spreading insistently beneath his tremblingfingers.  The thin cotton garment was stenciled with the black numeraleighteen."No!"  Ben shouted.The man had taken a bullet in order to kill Lenz and protect his onlysurviving son."Lenz's private helicopter," Max whispered.  "You reach the bay throughthe back passage on the far left..."  He murmured instructions for a fewmoments longer.  Finally he said, "Tell me you understand."  Max's eyeswere imploring.  In a voice barely audible he repeated the words: "Tellme you understand.""Yes," Ben said, hardly able to speak himself.  Tell me you understandhis father meant the instructions to the bay, of course, but Bencouldn't help thinking that he meant something more, too.  Tell me youunderstand: tell me you understand the difficult decisions I made inlife, however mistaken.Tell me you understand them.  Tell me you understand who I really am.As if in resignation, Max pulled his hands from his throat, and bloodbegan to spurt, with the slow, regular pulse of his heartbeat.Tell me you understand.Yes, Ben had told him, and just then, at least, he did.  / understand.Within a few moments, his father slumped backward, lifeless.Lifeless, and yet the picture of health.  Blinking away tears, Ben couldsee that his father looked decades younger, his hair beginning to growin glossy and dark, his skin smooth, firm, toned.In death, Max Hartman had never looked more alive.CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT.Ben and Anna raced down the corridor, gunfire audible all around.  Thebandolier swung against the barrel of her Uzi as she ran, producing adull rattle.  At any moment, they could be set upon, but the guardsrealized they were heavily armed, would have to approach with caution.Anna knew that no paid sentry, however loyal, would endanger his lifeneedlessly.Max's directions had been clear and accurate.Another right turn brought them to a stairwell.Ben opened the steel-plated door, and Anna directed a burst of gunfireinto the landing area: anyone present would instinctively dive forcover.  As they entered, there was a deafening return burst: a guardlocated on the level below, shooting in the narrow space between thestairs.  It was not an angle that afforded any accuracy; the biggestdanger was being hit by a ricochet."Run upstairs," Anna whispered to Ben."But Max said the bay level is downstairs," Ben protested in a lowvoice."Do what I say.  Start running upstairs.  Loudly."He immediately understood, and did so, making sure that his shoesthundered against the stairs as he mounted them.Anna flattened herself against the wall, just out of the sight line fromthe lower landing.  Within a few moments, she detected the guard'smovements: hearing Ben's ascent, he was scrambling to catch up with hisquarry.The seconds became hours.  Anna could picture the guard bounding up tothe lower landing: she'd have to work with a mental image, assembledfrom sounds of the man's movements.  Once she was visible to the guard,she would have no advantage over him other than swiftness.  She wouldkeep out of sight until the last possible moment; and then her reflexeswould have to be instantaneous.Now she leaped into the air and fired where she pictured the guard inher mind, squeezing the trigger even as she was at last able to confirmhis position visually.The guard had a submachine gun aimed directly at her.  Victory or defeatwould be measured in milliseconds.  Had she waited until she could seehim before firing, the advantage would have been his.Instead, she watched as his tunic erupted into blood and his weaponfired harmlessly above her, then fell noisily down the stairs."Anna?"  Ben called out."Now!"  she replied, and he sprinted down the two flights of stairs,joining her at the bay level, at a gate-latch door, also of gray-paintedsteel, which pushed out.As they entered Bay Number 7, they felt a gust of cold, and there it wasthe helicopter glinting in the waning light, a great gleaming metalliccreature.  It was a large, sleek, black Agusta 109, brand new.Italian-made, with wheels instead of skids."Can you really fly this thing?"  Anna asked, after they'd bothclambered into it.Ben, seated in the cockpit, grunted assent.  In truth he had flown ahelicopter only once before, a training vehicle, with a licensed pilotat the twin set of controls.  He had flown planes many times, but thiswas entirely different, counterintuitive.  He scanned the dim cockpitfor the controls.For an instant, the complexities of the instrument panel dissolved intoa blur.  The image of his father's crumpled body seemed to hover beforehis eyes.  He flashed on a Max Hartman just young enough that he couldglimpse how he once must have looked.  He could glimpse the youthfulfinancier who found the country around him erupting into a lethal blazeof hatred.  Who raced around, entering into loathsome accommodationswith a loathsome regime in order to save as many families as he could. Aman accustomed to mastery turned into a pawn.He could glimpse the man an emigre, a harrowed man, a man with secretswhom his mother met and fell in love with.  Max Hartman, his father.Ben shook his head hard.  He had to focus.He had to focus or they would both be dead.  And everything would be fornothing.The bay was open to the elements.  Outside the gunfire seemed to becoming closer."Anna, I want you ready with the Uzi in case any of the guards try toshoot us down," Ben said."They won't shoot," Anna said, a wish expressed as a declaration. "Theyknow it's Lenz's helicopter."A voice from the back, cultivated and precise: "Quite so.  Did yousuppose that Lenz had no passengers waiting for him, Ms.  Navarro?"They weren't alone."A friend of yours?"  Ben asked Anna quietly.They both turned around and saw the passenger crouched in the rearcompartment, a white-haired but vigorous-looking man wearing largeglasses with translucent flesh-toned frames.  He was immaculatelyattired in a King Edward-style Glenn Urquhart suit, a crisp white shirt,and a tightly knotted olive silk tie.In his hands was a short-barreled automatic weapon, the one ineleganttouch."Alan Bartlett," Anna breathed."Toss me the gun, Ms.  Navarro.  My gun is trained on you, and yours ishardly in position.  I'd very much regret having to squeeze the trigger,you know.  The discharge would surely blow out the windshield andpossibly damage the fuselage as well.  Which would be unfortunate, sincewe'll be needing this vehicle as a means of conveyance."Slowly, Anna let the Uzi slide to the floor, and pushed it towardBartlett.  He did not lean over to retrieve it, but seemed satisfiedthat it was out of her reach."Thank you, Ms.  Navarro," said Bartlett.  "My debt of gratitude towardyou only grows.  I don't know that I adequately expressed my thanks foryour having located Gaston Rossignol for us, and so swiftly.  The wilyold bird really was poised to cause us a great deal of trouble.""You bastard," Anna said in a low voice.  "You evil, manipulative son ofa bitch.""Forgive me, I realize this is hardly the time or place for a fitnessreport, Ms.  Navarro.  But I must say, it's terribly unfortunate that,having given us such excellent service, you've started to undo all thegood you've achieved.  Now, where is Dr.  Lenz?"Ben answered for her: "Dead."Bartlett was silent for a moment.  There was a flicker in his gray,expressionless eyes.  "Dead?"  His grip tightened on his automatic rifleas he digested the information.  "You idiots!"  His voice flaredabruptly.  "You destructive idiots!  Vicious children seeking to ruinsomething whose beauty you could never comprehend.  What gave you theright to do that?  What made you think this was your decision to make?"He fell silent again, and was visibly shaking with anger when heresumed.  "Damn you both to hell!""After you, Bartlett," Ben snapped."You're Benjamin Hartman, of course I'm sorry we meet under thesecircumstances.  But then I have only myself to blame.  I should haveordered you killed at the same time as your brother: that shouldn't havetaxed our capabilities.  I must have grown sentimental in my old age.Well, my young lovers, I'm afraid the two of you have left me with somedifficult decisions to make."Faintly reflected in the windshield of the cockpit was the wide barrelof Bartlett's assault weapon.  Ben kept his eyes on it."First things first," Bartlett went on, after a pause.  "I'm going tohave to rely upon your piloting skills.  There's a landing strip outsideVienna.  I'll direct you to it."Ben glanced again at Bartlett's automatic weapon and toggled up thebattery switch.There was the clicking sound of the spark plugs firing, then the whineof the starter motor, which gradually deepened.  It was fully automatic,Ben realized, which would make it much easier to fly.In ten seconds there was ignition, and the engine thundered to life. Therotors began turning."Belt yourself in tight," Ben murmured to Anna.  He pulled up on thecollective's twist grip with his left hand, heard the sound of therotors slowing.Then some kind of horn sounded, and the engine slowed."Damn," he said."Do you know what you're doing?"  Bartlett asked.  "Because if youdon't, you're of no use to me at all.  I needn't spell out what thatmeans.""Just a little rusty," Ben replied.  He grabbed the throttles, the twosticks that came down from the top of the windshield, and pushed both ofthem forward.Now the engine and both the tail and the main rotors roared again. Thehelicopter lurched forward, then yawed left and right.Ben abruptly yanked back on the throttle: the helicopter came to anabrupt jarring halt.  Both he and Anna pitched forward against therestraint belts; Bartlett, as Ben had hoped, was hurtled against themetal grid that backed the cockpit.Even as he heard the clatter of the assault rifle smashing into thepartition, Ben unbelted himself and sprang into action.Bartlett, he could see, had been temporarily stunned by the impact; arivulet of blood descended from his left nostril.  Now, with thesuddenness of a leopard, Ben hurled himself around his seat and pouncedon Bartlett with both hands, slamming the man's shoulders to the griptextured steel flooring.  Bartlett put up no resistance.Had the impact of the partition knocked him unconscious?  Was he alreadydead?It was too risky to make any assumptions."I've got an extra set of restraints on me," Anna said.  "If you canbring his wrists together..."Within moments, she had manacled both his hands and legs, leaving herold employer trundled in the back like a rolled-up carpet."Jesus," Anna said.  "There's no time.  We've got to get a move on. Theguards they're on their way!"Ben pushed the two sticks forward, then twisted the collective up whilemaintaining his grip on the cyclic.  The collective controlled thehelicopter's lift; the cyclic controlled its lateral direction.  Thehelicopter's nose moved to the right, the tail to the left, and then itstarted rolling out of the bay and onto the snow-covered lawn, coollyilluminated by the moonlight."Shit!"  Ben shouted, pushing the collective down to reduce power,trying to stabilize the craft.Slowly he pulled the collective up, adding power slowly, and felt theaircraft getting light.He pushed the stick forward an inch or two, felt the nose pitch down,then added a bit more power with the collective.They were rolling now.The helicopter taxied forward across the snow.The collective was now halfway up.Suddenly, at a speed of twenty-five knots, the chopper jumped into theair.They'd lifted off.He pulled back on the stick to gain more power, and the nose went right.They kept rising.Bullets clattered against the cabin.Several guards were running, their submachine guns pointed at thehelicopter, shouting."I thought you said they wouldn't shoot at Lenz's helicopter.""Word must have got out about the good doctor," Anna said.  "Hey, betterto travel hopefully, right?"  She thrust the barrel of her Uzi out theopen side window and fired off a burst.  One of the guards fell to theground.Then she fired another, more sustained burst.The other guard was down."O.K.," she said, "I think we're all right for a little while."Ben brought the collective back past center, and the nose corrected.Higher, then higher still.They were directly above the Schloss now, and the craft felt morestable.  Now he could fly it like an airplane.Ben became aware of a sudden movement, and just as he turned, he felt ajabbing, searing pain at the base of his neck and shoulders.  What hefelt had some resemblance to the sensation of a pinched nerve but ahundred times worse.Anna shrieked.From the hot moist breath near his face, Ben realized what had happened.Bartlett, his arms and legs shackled, had thrown himself at Ben,attacking him with the only thing left at his disposal his jaws.A guttural vocalization, like the growl of a jungle creature, rose fromBartlett's throat as he sank his teeth farther into Ben's exposed neckand shoulders.As Ben released the collective in order to grab hold of Bartlett, thehelicopter started to yaw perilously to one side.It wasn't over!  Anna knew that to fire her gun at him would be to riskkilling Ben.  She seized handfuls of Bartlett's lank white hair andpulled with all her might.  Pulled until the hair came out, exposingbloodied pink ovals of scalp.And still Bartlett would not let up.It was as if he were directing all his vital force into his jaws,pushing his teeth down into Ben's flesh with the muscular strength ofhis entire body.It was all he had left.  A wounded animal's one chance to survive--or,at least, to ensure that his enemy did not.Ben, obviously convulsed by agony, pounded at Bartlett's head with hisfists, but to no effect.Was it possible--to have come so far, survived so much, only to bedestroyed in the midst of escape?Bartlett was maniacal, insensible to pain--a man of elegance andsupernal ambition now reduced to the most elemental posture of anyvertebrate.  He could have been a hyena on the Serengeti plains, sinkinghis incisors into another creature, hoping that only one of them wouldmake it to another day.Even as his mouth vised on Ben's neck and shoulders, Bartlett's body waswrithing, flailing, thrashing--kicking at Anna with both feet, joltingher out of position, weakening her grasp on him.  A blast of cold airsuddenly filled the helicopter.  Bartlett's wild, eel-like movements hadkicked open the door on Anna's side.Another violent movement of his jarred the pedals, which controlled thetail rotors, and the helicopter began to rotate left, first spinningslowly and then more swiftly.  As the centrifugal force gained in power,Anna began to slide precariously toward the open door.  She clawed atBartlett's face, her nails in his flesh providing her sole purchase.What she was doing sickened her, but it was the only way: she dugdeeper, harder, forcing her finger into his orbital cavity."Open wide, you son of a bitch!"  she shouted, gouging into the yieldingflesh until, at last, with a blood-curdling scream, Bartlett releasedhis mandibular grip.What happened next was a blur: both Anna and Bartlett were thrown towardthe open door, toward the yawning drop to the earth far beneath them.Then she felt an iron like grip on her wrist.  Ben's hand had shot out,grabbing her, holding her back as the helicopter continued to spin at aforty-five degree incline and Bartlett, bellowing, finally succumbed togravity and slid out of the helicopter.  His bellows became fainter ashe plunged to the Schloss far below them.But would the helicopter follow him down?  Unlike an airplane, ahelicopter that had moved beyond the limits of correct angular positionwould simply drop like a stone.  And the rotating helicopter continuedto tilt, horrifyingly, as the loss of lift became sickeningly apparent.Regaining proper position would require both hands and feet.  Benfrantically adjusted the cyclic and the collective as his feet workedthe pedals, coordinating the tail rotor with the main rotor."Ben!"  she yelled, only just managing to latch the door.  "Dosomething!""Jesus!"  he roared over the straining rotors.  "I don't know if I can!"The helicopter suddenly plunged, and Anna's stomach lurched upward, butshe noticed that even as it fell, it was starting to right itself.If it righted itself in time found the angle required for lift they'dstand a chance.Ben manipulated the controls with furrowed intensity.  Viscerally, theyknew that the rotorcraft had only seconds remaining before the descentvelocity became unrecoverable: any wrong decisions would be fatal.She felt it before she saw it felt the lift before she saw, from thehorizon line, that the helicopter had returned to even keel.For the first time in a long while, she experienced a small but growingabatement of panic.  Deftly, she tore off a piece of her blouse andpressed it to the area of Ben's lower neck that had been attacked.  Thearea was deeply grooved with tooth marks, but the compression woundsleft very little blood, which was fortunate.  No major vessels had beenbreached.  Ben would need medical attention before too long, but itwasn't an emergency.Now she looked down out of the window.  "Look!"  she called out.Directly below them she could see the toy-model castle surrounded by itsserpentine fence.  And at the base of the mountain a dense crowd ofpeople was surging, streaming."That's them!"  she shouted.  "It looks like they got out!"They heard an explosion from below, and a great crater suddenly appearedin the ground next to the Schloss.A small section of the ancient stone fortress nearest the blast crumbledlike a fragile confection of spun sugar."The dynamite," Ben said.They were more than a thousand feet up now, cruising at 140 knots. "Theidiots dynamited the mouth of the cave.  Way too close to the buildinglook at what the explosion's done.  Jesus!"She saw what looked like a white cloud forming near the summit of themountain, rolling like dense fog down the mountainside.A white cloud of snow, a great wave, the avalanche a cruel fact ofnature in the Austrian alps.It was a strangely beautiful sight.Apart from scores of children who managed to flee the grounds of theSchloss, there were no survivors.Thirty-seven people around the world, many of them great men and women,all of them leaders in their field, were shocked to read the obituariesof the Viennese philanthropist Jurgen Lenz, in the avalanche that buriedthe Alpine Schloss he had inherited from his father.Thirty-seven men and women, all of whom were in remarkable health.CHAPTER FORTY-NINE.A gleaming throwback to a more elegant age, the Metropolis Club occupiedthe corner of a handsome block on East Sixty-eighth Street in Manhattan.It was a grand McKim, Mead & White building from the late nineteenthcentury, adorned with limestone balustrades, trimmed with intricatemodillion courses.  Inside, the curved wrought-iron railings of thedouble staircase led past marble pilasters and plaster medallions to thespacious Schuyler Hall.  Three hundred chairs were now assembled on itsblack-and-white harlequinade floor.  Ben had to admit, for all hismisgivings, that it wasn't an inappropriate venue for his father'smemorial service: Marguerite, Max Hartman's executive assistant fortwenty years, had insisted on organizing the event and her efforts were,as always, beyond reproach.  Now he blinked hard and looked at the facesin front of him, until the collectivity came into focus as individuals.Seated in all those chairs was a curious community of mourners.  Ben sawthe careworn faces of older men from New York's banking community,grizzled, jowly, stoop-shouldered men who knew that banking, theprofession to which they had devoted their lives, was now changing inways that exalted technical competence over the cultivation of personalrelationships.  These were bankers who had made their biggest deals onthe fairways--gentlemen of the green who glimpsed that the future oftheir industry belonged to callow men with bad haircuts and doctoratesin electrical engineering, callow men who did not know a putter from anine iron.Ben saw the elegantly attired leaders of major charitable causes.  Hemade fleeting eye contact with the executive director of the New-YorkHistorical Society, a woman who wore her abundant hair in a tight bun;her face looked slightly stretched, in a diagonal that ran from eachcorner of her mouth to an area behind each ear--the familiar sign of arecent face-lift, marks of the surgeon's crude craft.  In the row behindher, Ben recognized the white-haired, navy-suited head of the GrolierSociety.  Thesoigne president of the Metropolitan Museum.  The neo-hippyishchairwoman of the Coalition for the Homeless.  Elsewhere were provostsand deans of several major educational institutions, each keeping theothers at a careful distance, each regarding Ben somberly.  In the firstrow was the charismatic national director of the United Way charities,slightly rumpled, his brown basset-hound eyes looking genuinely moved.So many faces, dissolving briefly and then resolving into particularityonce more.  Ben saw striving couples, tight-bodied wives andsoft-bellied men, who had helped secure their position in New Yorksociety by enlisting Max Hartman's support in their ceaselessfund-raisers for literacy, AIDS, freedom of expression, wildlifeconservation.  He saw neighbors from Bedford: the softball-playingmagazine mogul with his trademark bold-striped shirt; the slightlytatty-looking, long-faced scion of a distinguished old family who oncedirected an Egyptology program at an Ivy League university; the youngishman who had launched, and sold to a conglomerate, a company that madeherbal teas with colorful New Age names and progressive box-tophomilies.Worn faces, fresh faces, familiar ones and strange ones.  There were thepeople who worked for Hartman Capital Management.  Prized clients, likegood old Fred McCall an who'd dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchiefonce or twice.  Former colleagues of his from his days teaching in EastNew York; newer colleagues of his from the job he'd just taken at anequally poor high school in Mount Vernon.  There were people who hadhelped him and Anna in their time of need.  Above all, there was Anna,his francee, his friend, his lover.Before all of these people, Ben stood before a rostrum at the raisedplatform at the end of the hall and tried to say something about hisfather.  In the previous hour, a very fine string quartet one that MaxHartman had helped sponsor had played an adagietto by Mahler, adaptedfrom his Fifth Symphony.  Erstwhile business colleagues andbeneficiaries of Max had evoked the man they knew.  And now Ben foundhimself speaking, and wondering as he spoke, whether he was reallyaddressing the assembled or himself.He had to speak of the Max Hartman he knew, even as he wondered how muchhe ever did know or could know him.  His only certainty was that it washis task to do so.  He swallowed hard and continued speaking: "A childimagines that his father is all-powerful.  We see the pride and thebroad shoulders and the sense of mastery and it's impossible to thinkthat this strength has limits.  Maybe maturity comes of recognizing ourerror."  Ben's throat constricted, and he had to wait a few momentsbefore resuming."My father was a strong man, the strongest man IVe ever known.  But theworld is powerful, too, more powerful than any man, however bold anddetermined he may be.  Max Hartman lived through the darkest years ofthe twentieth century.  He lived through a time when mankind revealedhow very black its heart could be.  In his mind, I think, the knowledgedefiled him.  I know that he had to live with that knowledge, and make alife and raise a family, and pray that his knowledge would not shadowour lives as it did his own.  After such knowledge, what forgiveness?"Again Ben paused, took a deep breath, and pressed on."My father was a complicated man, the most complicated man I have everknown.  He lived through a history of astonishing complexity.  A poetwrote:"Think now History has many cunning passages, contrived corridorsAnd issues, deceives with whispering ambitions, Guides us by vanities."My father liked to say that he only looked forward, never behind. Thatwas a lie, a brave, defiant lie.  History was what my father was shapedby, and what he would always struggle to overcome.  A history that wasanything but black and white.  The eyesight of children is very sharp.It dims with age.  And yet there is something that children really don'tsee too well: the intermediate tones.  Shades of gray. Youth is pure ofheart, right?  Youth is uncompromising, resolute, zealous. That is theprivilege of inexperience.  That is the privilege of a moral cleanlinessuntested and untroubled by the messiness of the real world."What if you have no choice but to deal with evil in order to fightevil?  Do you save those you love, those you can, or do keep yourselfpure and unsullied?  I know I never had to make that call.  And I knowsomething else.  A hero's hands are chapped, scuffed, chafed andcallused, and only rarely are they clean.  My father's were not.  Helived with the sense that, in fighting the enemy, he had also done workthat served their purposes.  In the end, his broad shoulders would bebowed with a sense of guilt that none of his good deeds could evererase.  He could never forget that he had survived when so many he hadcherished did not. Again: After such knowledge what forgiveness?  Theeffect was that he redoubled his efforts to do what was right.  Onlyrecently have I come to understand that I was never truer to him and hisown sense of mission than when I thought I was rebelling against him,and his expectations for me.  A father wants, above all, to keep hischildren safe.  But that is the one thing that no father can do."Ben's eyes met Anna's for a long, lingering moment, and he found solacein the steady, answering gaze of her liquid brown eyes."One day, God willing, I will be a father, and no doubt I will forgetthis lesson and have to relearn it.  Max Hartman was a philanthropist inthe root sense of the word, he loved people and yet he was not an easyman to love.  Every day, his children would ask themselves whether theymade him proud or ashamed.  Now I see that he was burdened by thisquestion, too: would he make us, his children, proud or ashamed!"Peter, above all else, I wish you were here with me at this verymoment, to listen and to talk."  Now his eyes welled.  "But, Peter, thisyou've got to file under 'strange but true," as you used to say. Dadlived in fear of our judgment."Ben bowed his head for a moment.  "I say my father lived in fear that Iwould judge him and yet it seems incredible.  He feared that a childbred of luxury and indolence would judge a man who had to endure theannihilation of everything he held dear."Ben squared his shoulders, and, his voice hoarse and thickened withsadness, spoke a little louder.  "He lived in fear that I would judgehim.  And I do.  I judge him mortal.  I judge him imperfect.  I judgehim a man who was mulish and complicated and hard to love and foreverscarred by a history that left its mark on everything it touched."And I judge him a hero."I judge him a good man."And because he was hard to love, I loved him all the harder ..."Ben broke off, the words strangled in his throat.  He could say no more,and perhaps there was nothing more that needed to be said.  He looked atAnna's face, saw her cheeks glistening with tears, saw her weeping forthem both, and he slowly walked away from the rostrum, and toward theback of the hall.  Soon Anna joined him, standing by his side whilecountless guests shook his hand as they filed out through the hall andtalked among themselves in an adjoining room.  There were words ofcondolence and of affectionate reminiscence.  Kindly old men squeezedhis shoulder, clearly remembering him as a child, one half of theadorable Hartman twins.  Ben steadily regained his composure.  He'd feltwrung out, but part of what had been wrung out of him was the heavinessof grief.Ten minutes later, when someone the head of the tax division at HCM tolda fond, funny anecdote about his father, Ben found himself laughing outloud.  Somehow he felt lighter than he had in weeks, maybe years.  Asthe crowd thinned, a tall, square-jawed, sandy-haired man clasped hishand."We've never properly met," the man said, and then he glanced at Anna."Ben, this is someone who has been a good friend to us both," Anna saidwarmly.  "I'd like you to meet the new director of the InternalCompliance Unit, at Justice David Denneen."Ben shook his hand vigorously.  "I've heard a lot about you," he said."And can I say thanks for saving our ass?  Or is that just part of yourjob description?"  Ben knew that Denneen had been chiefly responsiblefor clearing Anna's name; the word had been artfully "leaked" that she'dbeen working for a sting operation, those reports of her misdeeds fakedin order to draw out some genuine malefactors.  Anna had even receivedan official governmental letter of thanks for her "dedicated service andvalor," although the letter discreetly left the circumstances of thatvalor unspecified.  Still, it served a turn in helping her land a job asvice president in charge of risk-avoidance at Knapp Incorporated.Now Denneen bent down and kissed Anna on the cheek.  "The debt runs theother way," he said, turning back to Ben.  "As you very well know.Anyway, these days at the I.C.U I'm in the downsizing business. Someday,when my mother asks me what I do for a living, I'd like to be able totell her.""And Ben?"  Anna presented the diminutive, brown-skinned manaccompanying Denneen.  "One more dear friend of mine I'd like you tomeet: Ramon Perez."Another vigorous handshake.  Ramon smiled, showing very white teeth. "Anhonor," he said, bobbing his head a little.He was still smiling when he and Anna drifted off to a corner to talk."You look like the cat that ate the canary," Anna said.  "What is it?What's so funny?"  Her moist eyes gleamed with amusement.Ramon just shook his head.  He glanced at her france across the room andthen at her, and still he was smiling."Ah," she said at last.  "I know what you're thinking.  "What a waste,"right?"Ramon shrugged but didn't deny it.Anna looked over toward Ben until their eyes met.  "Well, let me tellyou something," she said.  "He ain't wasted on me."Afterward, Ben and Anna found a HCM Lincoln Town Car waiting for them infront of the Metropolis; the driver, seeing them emerge, stood stifflyin front of the car, ready to open the rear door.  Ben held Anna's handin his gently as the two walked toward the vehicle that would take themaway.  A faint drizzle made the streets gleam in the evening dusk.Then Ben started, felt a twinge of adrenaline: the driver lookedcuriously youthful, almost adolescent, yet compactly, powerfully built.A kaleidoscope flashed before his mind, nightmarish images from a timenot long in the past.  Ben grasped Anna's hand fiercely.The driver turned to face Ben, and the glow from the arched windows ofthe Metropolis illuminated his face.  It was Gianni, Max's driver forthe last two years of his life, a gap-toothed, boyish, high-spiritedfellow.  Gianni took off his taupe cap, waved it."Mr.  Hartman," he called out.Ben and Anna entered the car, and Gianni closed the door with anefficient thunk before settling into the driver's seat."Where to, Mr.  Hartman?"  Gianni asked.Ben glanced at his watch.  The night was young, and tomorrow wasn't aschool day, anyway.  He turned to Anna.  "Where to, Ms.  Navarro?"  Benasked."Anywhere at all," she said.  "As long as it's with you."  Her handfound his again, and she rested her head on his shoulder.Ben inhaled deeply, sensed the warmth of her face next to his, and feltat peace.  It was an odd, unaccustomed feeling."Just drive," Ben said.  "All right, Gianni?  Anywhere, nowhere--justdrive."CHAPTER FIFTY.USA TODAYINSIDERS SPECULATE ABOUTNEXT SUPREME COURT NOMINEEDeclaring that he "deeply regretted but fully understood" Justice MiriamBateman's decision to step down from the U.S. Supreme Court at theconclusion of the spring term, President Maxwell said that he and hisadvisers would take their time and make a "considered, deliberate"decision about who would be proposed as her successor.  "Living up toJustice Bateman's probity and wisdom will be a heavy burden on anynominee, and we approach this task with humility and with open minds,"the President said in a press conference.  However, insiders havealready produced a short list of names believed to be under activeconsideration ... THE FINANCIAL TIMESMERGER TALKS BETWEEN ARMAKON, TECHNO CORPIn what would be an unusual pairing of two New Economy powerhouses,officials at both the Vienna-based agricultural and biotechnology giantArmakon and the Seattle-based software giant Technocorp acknowledgedthat the corporations had entered into preliminary merger negotiations."Biotech is increasingly about computing, and software is increasinglyabout applications," Arnold Carr, Technocorp's CEO, told reporters."We've been strategic partners in the past, but a more formalconsolidation would, we believe, ensure the long-term growth of both ourcompanies."  One prominent member of Technocorp's board of directors,former Secretary of State Dr.  Walter Reisinger, said that the boards ofboth companies fully supported management in the decision.  According toReinhard Wolff, the managing director of Armakon, the merger wouldobviate the need for costly outsourcing of programming and potentiallyrepresent billions in savings.  He credited the "truly wise anddistinguished directors" of both companies with having facilitated thenegotiations.Large shareholders in both companies seemed to approve of the mergertalks.  "There is strength in unity," Ross Cameron, whose Sante Fe Groupholds 12.5 percent of Technocorp's series A stock, said in a preparedstatement, "and we believe that together these companies have atremendous amount to offer the world."A joint press release issued by the companies said that the combinedcorporation would be able to take a position of leadership in the healthsciences."Given Armakon's record of extensive research in biotechnology, andTechnocorp's enormous resources," Wolff stated, "the merged companieswill be able to push back the frontiers of the life sciences in ways wecannot simply foresee."On Wall Street, analysts had sharply divided reactions to the proposedmerger ...

About this Title

 This eBook was created using ReaderWorks®Publisher 2.0, produced by OverDrive, Inc.

 For more information about ReaderWorks, please visit us on the Web atwww.overdrive.com/readerworks