

HANDS OF THE TRAITOR

A Matt Rider thriller #1

New Edition

Private investigator Matt Rider wants to find out if his grandfather killed Sophie Bernay, and uncovers an appalling international secret. Domestic Chemicals, a New York company owned by the Heinman dynasty, made poison gas for Nazi Germany. And now the past is back to haunt them -- like the bloated corpse Frank B. Heinman saw rising to the surface in the East River as a boy. Matt Rider in England and Frank Heinman in New York are on a collision course. The ex-president of Domestic Chemicals will make sure no one stays alive if he sees them as a danger to the company. Matt Rider just wants the truth. Hands of the Traitor is the first Matt Rider detective thriller.

Hands of the Traitor

by

Christopher Wright

First published in the USA by Hard Shell Publishing ©Christopher Wright 2004

This North View Publishing edition ©Christopher Wright 2016

Hands of the Traitor is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Statements made by characters in this book may not always reflect historical fact, just what they choose to believe to be true. Any racist statements are those of the fictional characters making them, and do not reflect the views of the author.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

North View Publishing

email: northviewpublishing@gmail.com

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Contents

Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

More Thrillers from North View Publishing

Note

This book was first published in 2004. This North View Publishing edition has received some minor edits, but the technology has not been updated, so the story still takes place in 2004. This was an analog rather than a digital world! The four Matt Rider books take place six months to a year apart, allowing Matt and Zoé to develop their relationship.
Prologue

New York

FRANK BECKER HEINMAN signed the last letter of the day and left the office. Today he ceased to be president of DCI. Some of the staff thought they had seen the last of him, maybe even hoped it, but he had no intention of giving his useless son full control of the company.

He could perhaps allow himself a small sigh of relief. The company's secret past had remained hidden for sixty years. Just thinking about the possibility of exposure would have been enough to destroy a lesser man. His own father had been tough, but perhaps life required a tough tutor. His own father had also been a fool, and gotten himself killed in northern France on company business in 1944. He hailed a Yellow Cab.

Thirty-five minutes later he opened the front door to his Manhattan brownstone and sank into his much-loved armchair in the empty house. Thank God it was all behind him now.

*

England

ALEC RIDER raised himself in his bed and stared at the strange shadows. Shut in this hateful institution, appalling memories filled his mind. Living with the past and all its terrors, trapped in a prison smelling of urine and polish. He could recall those wartime days in northern France, but not remember the name of the man who shared his room today.

He watched the shadows from the tree dancing on the wall, swaying like reeds beside the Nazi rocket base. Matt was going to untie the past. He could remember Matt. Matt was his grandson, working for the police. Or was he a private detective? He sighed, a heavy sigh that echoed across the room. It was easy to get muddled. His memory failed him too often now. Perhaps the padre was right and the events in France were too dreadful to recall.

The war had been foul, when men -- ordinary family men -- had learnt to kill, and then done it until they stopped caring. He cared. Cared about killing Sophie. Even now, a lifetime later, the recollection made him sweat at night. The wartime padre, Fergus Hawkins, had told him that killing was the price of freedom. But what freedom had the killing of Sophie bought?

He slid his feet over the side of the bed and lowered them onto the thin carpet. The texture felt rough, like sandy gravel, like the ground at the launch site near Calais. The man opposite was snoring quietly. The street lamp let enough light through the window to show the fruit. He took an apple. It was the size of a grenade. The blade of the knife by the side of the bowl glinted invitingly. The knife brought back more memories as he picked it up with his empty hand.

He stared into the dim shadows. The man in the other bed. Was he Heinman, the American with a signet ring on each hand -- strange rings engraved with letters and a green eye -- a man with a case of gold for the Nazis? There was only one thing to do. The Special Operations Executive had trained him, and the SOE were experts. The man's mouth was wide, like a man would scream in agony if his hands were being cut off. He forced the grenade into the gaping jaws.

"Sophie!" he yelled.

He could see blood on the blonde girl's face. See her eyes open wide in fear.

Then the grenade exploded.
Chapter 1

England \-- Friday

HE DIDN'T mean to touch her hand. It was just that they both reached for the same book at the same time. He'd not even realized she was standing so close. Matt Rider laughed, mostly to cover his embarrassment.

Medical textbooks were new territory for him. He hoped she wouldn't think he wanted this volume for any personal reason. It was then that he became aware of her perfume.

"I am sorry," she said, pulling her hand back quickly. The accent sounded French.

"You are French?" It was worth a try.

She smiled as she nodded, but said nothing.

"Mon nom est Matt." He was reasonably fluent in French, but it wouldn't do to show off. "Matt Rider."

"Zoé Champanelle," she said.

It wasn't only her perfume. Her whole body...

"You are a doctor?" she asked in English.

It was a reasonable question. The medical book he'd reached for was large. And very expensive. "I'm a private investigator."

She caught his eye for a moment, a glance that not only shot him through the heart but hit him lower down too. Then she looked away, and back again briefly, still smiling. "And I am a nurse. Bonjour, Matt."

She was picking him up. He was sure of it. Their hands hadn't touched accidentally. Her move had been deliberate, the timing perfect.

He wanted to talk but felt tongue-tied. His friends would laugh if they could witness this fiasco. Fortunately there was no one here who knew him.

"I'm doing this for my grandfather." He didn't have to explain.

"Your grandfather is a doctor?"

"He's not well." This was getting too complex. He'd say too much and regret it. "If you're not busy, we could..."

She looked interested. At least, he thought she did.

*

THE SINGLE security light flashed unsteadily as a sheet of rain swept across the road. Matt Rider flicked the wipers to high speed and stared at the side door of the electrical warehouse. He could swear he'd seen it swing shut a moment ago.

He should be home with Louise, not driving around on his own like this, late at night. But Louise had left him.

For a moment all he could see was the French woman in the bookshop.

He edged his car through the entrance to the service yard for a clearer view. Something was wrong, but he couldn't decide what. This was an attractive place for villains after dark, and from Monday it would be his responsibility to make sure it remained secure. It was just as well to check it out now.

In the bookshop he'd been feeling like the white knight in distress, with the beautiful maiden coming to set him free. Only the maiden didn't know about his troubles. And even if she did know, she probably had a life of her own and wasn't into rescue missions. But it was fun to fantasize. It helped heal the hurt.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light but the side door appeared to be partly open again. The main alarm should have gone off if someone had broken in. No way was he getting out in this rain. He reversed between two rubbish skips and the engine died with a rattle. The side door was definitely open. It was no illusion.

Then he realized what had been bothering him. He shouldn't have been able to get into the service yard. The main gates from the road should be closed and locked. He reached for his mobile phone. This job needed backup.

He tried to imagine what it would be like to have the French woman here in the car, sharing this moment, showing her the sort of thing he did for a living.

A torch flashed briefly in the warehouse doorway. Time for a phone call. But first a couple of snaps. He grabbed the camera from the glove box. Never travel without a camera. It was part of his training. He needed evidence and this was the safest way to get it. Slowly he lowered the passenger window, raised the reflex camera to his eye and zoomed in on the face. A man stood under the security light, his head and shoulders framed in the viewfinder. Matt focused on the face. The combination of auto focus and high speed film would allow him to freeze the face.

He could still sense the woman's sexy aroma that he'd somehow taken away with him.

As he pressed the shutter a brick smashed the driver's window. A gloved hand reached in and snatched his mobile phone. Matt turned the ignition. The engine sprang into life, the revs rose in a scream, the clutch bit. The figure, still holding the phone, fell away from the shattered glass.

With the front tires spinning on the wet tarmac he aimed his car for the gateway. A white Transit van appeared from nowhere and blocked the exit. Its wheels locked, Matt sat helpless as his car slid into the side of the van.

He selected reverse and accelerated backwards, made a handbrake turn and circled the yard. The broken headlights made it impossible to see into the shadows. Wind and rain streamed into his face through the shattered window as three men in the yard snatched bricks from a pile of rubble and threw them at his car.

Would she have agreed to meet him in the White Lion for a drink tomorrow if she wasn't even a bit interested?

The wall emerged without warning out of the darkness. He caught sight of a gap closed off with a steel gate. It was a narrow opening, perhaps no wider than his car. He hit the gate and slid between the brick pillars with less than an inch to spare. The remains of the gate clung to the bonnet for a moment, then fell away as he swung the steering wheel towards the glow of lights at the far end of the service road. He had to find a phone as soon as possible. He'd taken just one exposure on the film, but with luck it would be enough for a conviction.

He glanced at the passenger seat, at the book of advanced French grammar he'd bought after she'd gone, the cover now soaking wet. What was he, some kid with a crush on a girl in the fifth form, buying the book so he could brush up his French which was pretty good anyway? Could a man in his thirties get any more ridiculous than that? Louise would be furious if she found out.

As the rain continued to pour through the broken window he smiled as he thought of Louise's reaction. Zoé Champanelle. A nurse who'd touched his hand in a bookshop. He felt better already.

The police told him they'd be there within ten minutes. He was to wait by the phone box and not go near the warehouse -- for his own safety. It was a bit late for advice like that. Anyway, as an ex-policeman he should have known better than to handle this one on his own. Perhaps it was because he had someone on his mind. Someone stunning. Someone French.

Chapter 2

Saturday

"I THOUGHT you'd be pleased with last night." Matt Rider stood in front of his boss at Habgood Securities and smiled confidently. "And I'm not even asking for overtime."

"But it wasn't only your old car that got damaged." Ken Habgood swiveled anxiously in the red captain's chair behind his desk. "I suppose you know I'm a member of Tom Grieves' club. I've been worrying about this ever since you phoned me at home last night. We could have done well out of Tom's firm -- if you'd been a little more careful with his property."

"You'll be glad to know I didn't get hurt."

"Don't try wriggling out of this. Tom rang to say there were bricks and pieces of glass all over the yard when he went to clear up. In his words, a right old mess. And the Transit you hit belonged to his company. I know the villains were getting ready to load it, but Tom Grieves is not impressed with our surveillance methods. You should have phoned the police straight away."

"I wasn't expecting problems."

"You know what your trouble is, kiddo? You're always thinking on the hoof. You to need to plan ahead."

"I've always worked like this. It's called initiative. The police didn't like it."

"I don't like it either. Planning, planning, planning. It's the only way to come out on top."

Matt looked at the immaculately clear desk of the boss of Habgood Securities. A clear desk never impressed him. "The photo came out well," he said with a forced cheerfulness. "I got a positive ID."

"You were one lucky PI."

Matt shrugged. "It's what comes of thinking quickly. One of Grieves' own employees starred in the picture. No prize for guessing who opened the main gate and why the alarm stayed off."

Ken Habgood sounded grouchy. Perhaps it was coming to work on a Saturday. "But you didn't need to drive your car into the side of his van. And that's what I told Tom."

"Did you tell him it was raining a monsoon and there were three madmen in the yard with a handful of bricks?" Matt started to resent the way he was being treated. He'd come to work on his day off feeling proud. "Those three heard we were starting surveillance next week. That's why they brought the raid forward. Your Mr. Grieves has too big a mouth."

"You may be right." Ken sounded more relaxed. "I gather you've been down with your old mates at the Trinity Green cop shop, giving them the full SP."

"They're not all mates, Ken. You know I left the police in a bit of a rush. Some of them think I blew the whistle when that MP's case went wrong."

"Trinity Green didn't put themselves out too much for Tom Grieves."

"Right!" Matt tapped his finger on the clear desktop. "So tell him to stop bitching. Tom's troubles are over -- thanks to me."

Ken raised his hands. "Okay, you're a good PI but you charge into things, that's all. One day you'll rush into something big and be in trouble."

"I can cope with it."

Ken mellowed. "Perhaps I've not passed on Tom's thanks properly. He's grateful, kiddo, so I owe you one. Okay?"

"Good, I'm glad we've got that sorted out. Someone's insurance owes me a mobile phone, a new set of headlights, a side window -- oh, and a front bumper."

Ken drew his breath in sharply. "I can get you another phone, but there's not much point in fixing the car bodywork when the engine's falling apart. You were about to scrap that old banger."

"Tom Grieves doesn't know that, and I've only got third party."

"I'm not getting involved in an insurance scam."

"Forget the insurance. If Tom Grieves is that grateful, tell him to buy me a new car."

Ken ignored the suggestion. "Just remember you were supposed to be doing the job next week, kiddo, sitting in one of Tom's vehicles with a decent cell phone for company. Your car would have been safe if you'd left it at home."

"If I'd waited till Monday we'd have missed them."

Ken looked flustered. "Okay, so Tom's lucky you were there. How come you didn't have Louise with you? Friday was always a special night for lovers when I was young."

Matt kept silent. Louise would have been with him on any other Friday night. Had she really meant their relationship was over, or just that they should get a life apart for a few weeks? He was meeting Zoé outside the White Lion in less than an hour. Zoé Champanelle; and he knew nothing about her. She could be married. Just flirting. An unmarried mother of three. She might be fun for a week, but he'd been going with Louise for over two years now. He had to be careful not to act on the rebound.

Okay, so Louise had made it clear that his prospects at work weren't good enough for her. But would she be any happier with the man she kept talking about, a young manager from her office? Just because the man wore a suit and drove a silver BMW didn't mean he was Mr. Fantastic.

"It's over, Ken. I'll tell you about it next week."

It was still tipping down as he ran to his car. He opened the driver's door but paused, still holding the handle. He'd better not risk taking this wreck into town. Some jobsworth in uniform would probably be hanging around, wet and miserable, with a pocketful of blank tickets. He'd get the bus to the White Lion.

He took another look at the dented bonnet, at the cracked bumper and broken lights. Even if it could be mended, a heap like this wasn't going to impress anyone. The car was a write-off, and no way could he afford a replacement. Louise was right: his prospects at work were pathetic. Even before he'd walked out of the police, before coming here to work for Ken, Louise hadn't exactly been impressed with his potential. So it should be no surprise that she'd decided to set her sights higher.

He'd not take Louise back. Not like last time. Absolutely not. He slammed the car door. The polythene over the window tore free, and water from the folds cascaded onto the driver's seat.

No Louise. No car. Life was a sod. He looked at the dark clouds and set off to catch the bus. Maybe Zoé Champanelle would brighten his afternoon.

*

ZOÉ HAD got to the White Lion first. The bus hadn't come and he'd been obliged to run. He arrived wet and out of breath. Instead of waiting outside, Zoé had chosen a seat where she could be seen by most of the men in the crowded pub. He wished he'd run faster.

She looked surprisingly self assured in a navy and white floral print dress that clung to her body. She'd draped her coat over a spare chair. This was not the hesitant woman he remembered meeting yesterday by the medical books. He fetched her a drink from the bar and guessed he wasn't the first man to offer to buy her one that lunchtime.

He sat facing Zoé across the small table in the low-ceilinged room. "Did you go back for the book?" It made as good an opener as any.

She sipped her coke and lemon before carefully placing her glass in the center of the beer mat. Whatever lipstick she used, none had come off on the rim. Her smile lit up the pub as she shook her head. "Some of the English words were too technical for me."

"I can't believe that. You talk English well." He picked up his beer. He was a teenager again, feeling awkward just being with her. But he didn't want Zoé to think he drank a lot. He replaced his half pint glass of beer on the table without drinking anything. "What's my French like?"

She tapped him on the nose and giggled. "You talk French like an old-fashioned book."

He blinked. "They told me at school I was good at languages."

"Ah, l'ecole. At school I expect they had the old books."

"An old teacher," said Matt, aware again of the arousal he got from her perfume. Where had she been all his life? "But you can understand me when I talk in French?"

"Very well."

"Your English is excellent. What are you doing here?"

She blushed. "I came to England because ... to get ... to improve it."

He wondered why the hesitation. "Seems fine to me. Are you nursing over here?"

"I am staying in a hostel for French students."

"You're a student?"

"I have been a nurse for eight years now. The hostel is not just for the students. Maybe I will find work in an English hospital. And you, you have a family living close?"

"Only my grandfather. He's not well." Perhaps he shouldn't be mentioning him at all, especially not to a nurse.

"He is in an old people's house?"

"Home. Old people's home. He's ... he's not there at the moment." He wasn't going to explain about the incident with the fruit and the fact that his grandfather had just been moved to a secure hospital.

"And your parents?"

"My dad couldn't cope. My parents are separated."

"And you live alone?"

"I do now. I've been living with..." The pause was too long and too obvious, but Zoé just smiled. He decided to take the initiative. "You have a boyfriend, Zoé?"

She seemed taken aback by the bluntness of his question and took her time before replying. "I have what you English call ... an understanding. Is that it?"

So this was the catch. He knew there would be one. But he laughed and put his glass beside hers. "An understanding? Now that's an old fashioned expression."

"My English teacher was old too, so now I read the English books to learn everyday English. Fiction ... Romances."

Had she paused and then emphasized the word romances deliberately? Perhaps not.

"Not just medical books then?"

"Only for my work. And why do you buy them, Matt, if you are a private investigator?"

"I can't afford to buy them. I wanted to look something up. Can I ask you a medical question?"

"Not a personal one, I hope."

He loved her. "Everyone says my grandfather lost his marbles -- went mad -- at the end of the war. Now it's all started again. Can anyone still get screaming nightmares after sixty years?"

"Can something be so terrible that the scars in the mind they never heal? Oui, I think it could be so. You make it sound horrible."

"It is horrible. Something blew my granddad's brain in northern France. He used to talk to me about it, but I don't know if he was telling the truth. The doctors aren't bothering to treat him any more because they say they can't find a physical cause. Quite honestly I'm worried sick."

"You are sick?" She leaned forward and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand.

"It's an expression." He waited for Zoé to touch him again but she stayed in her seat. He swallowed a mouthful of beer. "They weren't looking after him properly at the nursing home. No one visited, except me." He might as well tell Zoé everything. "They've moved him to a mental hospital because they say he's a danger to others. My family has done nothing to help him over the years, and I want to make sure he gets the right treatment at last."

Zoé looked around the bar which had suddenly grown noisier as the Saturday lunchtime regulars crowded in. "It is very loud in here. You would like me to help?"

Matt raised his voice to be heard above the shouting and the piped music. "I don't think they'd let you near him. But thanks. It's just good to be able to talk to someone who understands." Then he realized that Zoé Champanelle was offering to spend more time with him. "I could take you to see him."

He groaned inwardly as he realized what he'd said. Come and meet my grandfather \-- he's insane. As a chat-up line it had to equal an invite to a public execution. He could just as easily have suggested an uncomplicated evening in town. He'd only mentioned his grandfather in the first place to explain why he was looking at medical books, to let her know that he wasn't a sick weirdo -- which she probably now thought he was. It hadn't been a serious invitation. He blamed the scent coming from Zoé.

To his surprise she smiled, showing an attractive if somewhat wide mouth. "I think perhaps you have the problems in your life. If I went with you I could not give a medical opinion."

"Just the opinion of a friend."

The smile went instantly at the word friend. She shook her head. "I am a nurse, and that is all."

He'd blown it. A trip to the local asylum was never going to win a fair maiden's heart, even though Zoé's hair was dark brown and anything but fair. He'd been given a chance to start life again, and had got everything wrong from the word go.

"Yes, I will go with you."

He stared in amazement. "There's a problem. They won't let me see my grandfather till he's settled down." Always there were problems. There had to be a way to stay in contact with Zoé over the next few days. "We could go to the cinema this evening. Or back to my place now for a meal. I know how to open the freezer and put food in the microwave."

"Non." She sounded certain. Then she smiled. "It is kind of you, Matt. Perhaps we could go somewhere for a pizza?"

"I know a good Italian restaurant." He looked at his watch. "We could go straight there. The food here is awful."

"And I will pay half."

"No you won't."

"Please, I would like to."

It was probably a well-meaning offer, but he didn't intend to take Zoé up on it. "You can pay your share next time." Next time? He hadn't meant it to sound as though meals were to be a permanent fixture, but Zoé nodded and smiled in response.

"D'accord."

No problem there then. He finished his beer. "Drink up and we'll go."

"And you can tell me what happened to your grandfather in France."

*

Northern France \-- Seven days later \-- Saturday

HENK VAN HETEREN had what he called a significant collection of military relics from both World Wars. The collection had once been on exhibition in Antwerp, making his name a legend around the Dutch metal detecting clubs. Members sometimes joked that he could home in on wartime remains with his detector switched off. He didn't laugh at observations like this because it wasn't amusing. He had plenty of admirers, but very few friends who wanted to come with him on field trips. Anyway, he preferred working alone.

As far as Henk was concerned, spectators were a nuisance. They were fools who stood in the way, gaping at whatever came up from the bottom of the holes he dug with his trowel -- or with his very sharp knife.

Henk Van Heteren wanted to work unaccompanied and unwatched. Today his metal detector had failed to give a decent signal for the past ten minutes; just the occasional squawk of unwanted trash. Yet within an hour of arriving on this site he'd received a small, clean signal \-- before the fools gathered. The hand had been little more than a skeleton, with a signet ring on the middle finger. A right hand. He'd wiped the dirt from it with his sleeve and revealed a large gold ring engraved with two ornate letters and a single eye. A green gemstone filled the eye. Slipping the ring into the bag, he'd dropped the disintegrating hand back into the hole. Only metal remains were of interest.

The extension to the French out-of-town shopping mall promised some exciting finds. The Germans had occupied this area near Calais in both World Wars. There were pieces of metal in the ground, definitely military, and mostly World War Two. Yesterday the construction team had found a small aluminum panel with Nazi markings.

Germans had built steel launch ramps for their flying bombs on sites like this in the Calais area of northern France. Pieces of ferrous scrap metal infested the ground, and only his long experience with the detector made it possible to avoid the spurious signals that intruded every time he swung the search head. Steel was nothing but a curse. He had to move slowly, and he had to move carefully.

In a few weeks the foundations for a shopping mall would cover this piece of land. If there were Nazi relics under the soil he might have to call the club down for a mass search.

Mass searches weren't so good, because mass searches involved people.

Henk looked warily at the crowds visiting the new supermarket for their Saturday shopping. The car park overlooked this area of ground marked out by ancient drainage ditches. The site was abandoned for the weekend. Le week-end, as they said locally. He almost smiled as he recalled this French use of English, and continued to move slowly over the dry grass, wearing his headphones and keeping the white search head of the detector close to the ground. People paused to stare as they pushed their laden trolleys of groceries back to their cars. Several families came down the slope to watch as he prepared to dig another small hole. What did they think he was looking for -- Captain Kidd's bloody treasure?

"Go home, there's nothing to see!"

The stupid children stood excitedly, their silly chatter attracting a group of friends. Before long a swarm of people descended on the site. Half-witted fathers who'd come to collect their kids now stayed to watch. There had been nothing interesting in the last five holes, but everyone stood open-mouthed as they waited for the signal that heralded the crock of gold.

Henk sighed. He needed to concentrate on the meter reading on the control box, on the crispness of the sound in the headphones, on the area over which the signal came. Every year he saved himself hundreds of hours of wasted digging by carefully analyzing the signals. He knew of no one else who could find small objects on this junk infested site.

He turned his back on the spectators in the hope they'd lose interest. The day was hot and tempers were frayed. Two children crouched down and their small hands darted into the hole just as he unearthed a circle of shiny metal. One kid nearly got his hand cut by the knife. Henk pushed him out of the way \-- rather roughly -- but only because he was in danger.

The boy fell backwards and hit his head on the ground. He began to scream, and his father was standing just behind.

The argument that followed made Henk irritable. The French father seemed unable to understand that a metal circle might be the end of a live shell case. Ammunition hidden in the ground for a long time could be dangerous, but Henk reckoned he knew how to deal with it.

He didn't know how to deal with stupid parents.

The father obviously believed he knew how to deal with treasure hunters who pushed his son around. He lashed out with his foot. Henk stood up quickly and towered above the man. The father swore a torrent of abuse and tried to pull his son back towards the car park.

His son refused to go. "C'est de l'or!" he shouted, wrenching himself free.

Henk knew the excited kid was right: the metal circle was undoubtedly gold. Brass went green after a couple of years in the ground. The boy's cry was like the bugle horn of the huntsman. Henk watched helplessly as the bystanders surged forward for a sight of the treasure. More families hurried down the slope from the car park to see what all the excitement was about.

"It's gold! Nazi gold!"

There seemed to be plenty of self-styled military experts in the crowd ready to pass on the good news to their excited neighbors. Henk hated them all as he stood with his large boot over the hole, his pulse racing. Nazi gold \-- it just might be. It wasn't a coin. For all the world it looked like the end of a gold cartridge case.

"Go away! Allez vous en!" He wasn't going to hide his anger.

The gathering crowd behaved as though they could almost smell the treasure. Gold bars with the Nazi eagle. At least twenty of them; some said fifty. The word got round quickly.

The rumors of Nazi treasure seemed to expand with every telling, and now everyone wanted to look into the small hole. Henk kept his boot firmly across the top.

"Show us the gold," someone at the back yelled in exasperation while Henk continued to cover the spot where he'd first glimpsed the shining circle.

But he knew he had no alternative. Slowly he bent down and scratched the earth away with his knife. He resented doing this under the gaze of a crowd of shoppers, but if he walked away someone else would quickly take over the digging. He now hoped the object would be brass. Perhaps in some strange way it had managed to keep its polish.

"It is gold!" The boy he'd pushed aside had wriggled back to the front. "Regardez, monsieur! Elle est une bougie, a candle!"

The kid was nothing but a menace.

Henk placed the small cylindrical object on the grass beside the hole. He'd now found two gold items on this site.

He took the signet ring from his pocket to examine it again. The initials had no obvious Nazi connection, nor did the green eye. It was a quality ring. An officer's perhaps. For a moment he was oblivious to the people pushing all around. Then he saw the gold cylinder disappear from beside his right foot. The boy held it up for everyone to see, then began to twist the top.

As Henk reached over to grab it, he sniffed. Something smelt disgusting, like tom-cats. He had his knife in his hand as he reached forward, lashing out at the bewildered boy. The wretched French kid wasn't going to get away with it.

In panic the boy threw the cylinder to the ground as the crowd surged forward. Henk watched a swarm of Frenchmen come towards him, their feet trampling the object into the soft earth. He lunged at them with his knife.

A young man with a shaved head diverted the blow, catching hold of Henk's wrist and forcing him down into the soil. The man snatched at the knife. The Dutchman used his feet as he lay on his back, kicking the man in the stomach and sending him backwards into the crowd of parents and children. The knife flew end over end high into the air in a flashing arc, embedding itself in a woman's shoulder as it landed, like a knife-throwing act that ended in tragedy.

Her scream seemed to cause rage more than panic. A tall man seized it by the handle, slashing the woman's neck as he pulled it away. The woman's husband darted forward to grab hold of the blade but it caught his wrist. Blood shot across people's faces before they could turn away.

Turning away seemed to be an action that was noticeably absent. Everyone wanted to be involved in the ensuing fight. The Dutchman's knife wasn't the only weapon around. Several blades flashed in the sunlight, their owners spurred into frenzy by the sight of blood. Or maybe it was the foul smell that drifted across the hysterical pack.

The children, used to the rough and tumble of playground life, were eager to be participants rather than spectators. A child psychiatrist would have been surprised to learn that the girls were as aggressive as the boys, perhaps even more so. But the adults had the knives, and the children became the sacrificial victims.

Then as suddenly as it started the air seemed to clear. People stood in horror, staring at the bodies on the ground. As the crowd began to drift away the sirens of the gendarmes' cars could be heard. Henk lay where he had fallen, a gold ring clutched tightly in his fist. Rigor mortis would set in soon, making it hard to remove the ring from his grasp.

*

A CRAZED knifeman outside a supermarket would have sounded sufficiently gruesome to ensure at least a fleeting mention in the foreign press. But a fight involving over thirty shoppers, seventeen of them children, sent the weekend newsrooms into a frenzy. There were six deaths and fourteen serious injuries. The authorities had already sealed the site to prevent further digging.

The story had all the ingredients of a nightmare movie. Knife blow after knife blow, so the eyewitnesses claimed.

There were fathers trying to protect their screaming children, fighting with each other, and the herd falling as they ran. Stones and iron bars from the construction site used as weapons. Finally the most sensational part of the story: the mob seizing the knife, and the Dutchman hacked to death by his own weapon. All for a gold ring. Someone insisted it was a gold candle.

Captain Lacoste, the local chief of the gendarmes, proudly showed the press a signet ring found in the Dutchman's hand. He allowed anyone with a suitable lens to take close-ups. Yes, he was investigating to find out if it had any bearing on the riot, but he denied finding anything resembling a gold candle. He explained that the fight demonstrated the dangers of greed and envy, as well as the hazards of treasure hunting. The local reporter reckoned that Lacoste was an idiot.
Chapter 3

England \-- Monday

"THAT FRENCH girl you've been going out with for the past week. Isn't she a medical doctor or something?"

"She's a woman, Ken, not a girl. A nurse. And for the record, Zoé Champanelle doesn't do old men's piles, so don't bother getting in touch."

"Who's having a bad day then?"

"And I'm not exactly going out with her. We've been round the shops, and I've taken her for a couple of meals."

"And?"

"And nothing. What were you expecting?"

"I hope you're not looking for consolation for Louise dumping you. I thought wedding bells were in the air."

"Louise didn't dump me. We both agreed ... Yes, okay, she dumped me. And I don't want to rush in and make the same mistake with someone else."

"Where's the Matt Rider I took on -- the man who knows what he wants and doesn't stop until he gets it?"

"That's work, Ken. Love is more difficult. Don't you think so?"

"No idea, kiddo. Mrs. Habgood and I aren't exactly..."

"See, you're calling her Mrs. Habgood. I don't want a relationship like that." Matt opened the cupboard and pulled out two mugs. "Coffee?"

"I don't think the missus would want any sort of relationship with you."

"I'm glad. From what you tell me..."

Ken changed the subject abruptly. "Someone at the club said your grandfather's been in trouble."

"Word certainly gets around. It was nearly two weeks ago. They've moved him now."

"After he had a go at someone in Saint Monica's?"

Matt switched on the percolator and spooned coffee into the filter. "He only tried to kill the man who shared his room. Took an apple and pushed it into the old fellow's mouth. Got it halfway down his throat. The matron said my grandfather was shouting something about gold rings when she got to him. The other man wasn't able to shout anything, until they got the apple out."

"Senility is a terrible thing, Matt." Ken opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a folder of accounts. Then he nodded towards the percolator. "I'll have white. So where's your grandfather now?"

"The South Memorial Hospital for a few weeks. He's not senile. It's some major mental disorder." Matt found a half empty carton of UHT milk in the cupboard and sniffed it cautiously. "I'm still not allowed to see him." He put the milk down quickly. "They've hidden all the fruit at Saint Monica's -- and the knives -- in case anyone else has a go."

"Alec Rider, the Killer of Saint Monica's Home for the Elderly." Ken closed his eyes and shook his head. "You've got one hell of a granddad there, kiddo."

"Did you see the news about the killings near Calais on Saturday? It seems everyone had it in for a Dutchman, and all for one lousy gold ring. I told Zoé Champanelle there has to be a connection with my grandfather."

Ken pulled some hand-written notes from the folder, but paused to look up. At least he was listening. "You said Zoé Champanelle with a certain something in your voice, you randy old dog. I hope you're not stricken with her. It's a bit soon to initiate a new girlfriend into your family's grisly past, isn't it?"

"She's not my girlfriend. And her interest is purely professional." Matt realized how pathetic he sounded. And why was he denying what he felt for Zoé? Louise was out of his hair now.

"What's your grandfather got to do with Saturday's massacre in France, kiddo? Was he there on an old folks outing?"

Matt checked the percolator. "Granddad brought back a signet ring from a commando raid in the war. Still wears it as a souvenir. It's got the initials D and C, and an engraved eye -- just like the ring the Dutchman found."

"It might be a coincidence."

"My grandfather says he met two Americans on a Nazi flying bomb site in France. I think it was 1944. They had a case of small gold cylinders. Granddad unscrewed one of the caps, and he reckons it contained a poison gas that made him go ape."

"The Americans were supplying the Nazis with poison gas?" Ken closed the folder.

"Granddad says it all got hushed up by the military."

"That doesn't surprise me." Ken leaned back in his chair. "I guess everyone wanted to live in peace when the war ended. So maybe your granddad wasn't making things up."

"What do you think?"

"I think your family should have looked into it years ago."

Matt shrugged. "No one believed him. Not the army, and certainly not my family. I guess no one wanted to know what happened to Granddad in France."

Ken laughed. "Not even you, as a cynical PI?"

"Not even me; but maybe there's still time to find out." Matt switched off the percolator and poured two mugs of coffee. "The milk smells terrible. Yours will have to be black."

"As long as it's hot."

"If I can find out what happened in the war I can tell the hospital specialist. Maybe he'll be able to sort out the right treatment. I'm not prepared to let them keep Granddad on sedation for the rest of his life."

"You're not taking this investigation up full time, kiddo?" Ken sounded anxious.

"Can you spare me for the rest of the day?"

Ken sighed. "Grandfathers don't live for ever. Mine died years ago and I still miss him. Okay, the sooner you sort this out the better. I don't want you mooching around here all day like a constipated cat. Where are you going to start?"

Matt used his thumb to break through the crust that had formed on top of the sugar over the weekend. He passed the bowl to Ken. "My grandfather said the two Americans were called Heinman. Someone called Jason Heinman was on the news a few days ago. He's the new president of Domestic Chemicals International in New York. The company is about to launch a cancer drug."

"So?" asked Ken.

"Domestic Chemicals International. DCI. Get it?"

Ken shrugged. "No."

"Get your brain in gear, Ken," said Matt in a voice of feigned impatience. "There's a D, a C and an eye on the rings, and a Heinman is running a pharmaceutical company called DCI."

Ken nodded. "So you think maybe the Heinmans were running it in the war?"

"If they were, it proves my grandfather knows what he's talking about. I've looked up the DCI web site. You have to register if you want full access, and I didn't want them to know I'm interested. But they list their products. Poison gas isn't one of them."

"Have they got an email address for general inquiries?"

"Yes, but they'll still want to know who I am. Anyway, I can't ask them if one of the Heinmans had his head blown off in France."

"What are you going to do if your grandfather's guilty of murder?"

Matt stayed silent for a moment. He'd already thought of that one. "I just want to know whether he's telling the truth or not. Maybe Granddad butchered everyone on the site, and that's what screwed him up."

Ken wiped the rim of his mug with his fingers before taking a sip. "How about trying Louise?"

"What for?" Matt started his coffee. The French beans had kept considerably better than the milk.

"Louise works for the Chamber of Commerce. Ask her to find an American trade organization. They should be able to tell you if anyone called Heinman from DCI died in France in the war -- if you write a confidential letter." Ken began to sound unexpectedly keen. "Don't bother with emails. No one answers them. Use Habgood letter heading. People respond to Habgood Securities."

"There is another avenue to explore."

"Go on." Ken put his mug down and pulled a face. "This is terrible. Get some instant next time you're at the shops and do us all a favor."

Matt ignored the criticism. The coffee was an expensive blend, bought by him with Ken's petty cash. "There's a French girl -- Sophie Bernay. My grandfather thinks he killed her. He keeps hearing a grenade going off in his sleep. If I could find her, she'd maybe remember what happened."

"Not if she's dead she won't remember anything," commented Ken dryly.

"If she's dead I don't have to tell him."

"Wouldn't any French woman do? Get your Zoé to pretend she's Sophie. See if it helps your grandfather remember a few more things."

"I couldn't live with myself."

"And now you want to find a beautiful French mademoiselle called Sophie? Isn't one enough for you?" Ken gave a dirty laugh.

"I'm not sure how Sophie Bernay would look. Granddad says he has this memory of Sophie's face covered in blood. He had a knife as well as a grenade, so he may..."

"I think I get the point," said Ken. "And your lovely French girlfriend doesn't mind you chasing after another woman?"

"Zoé isn't my girlfriend. Anyway, Sophie would be in her late seventies -- at best. Perhaps you'd like to be introduced."

Ken ignored the offer. "If you want my advice I'd go for the French woman and leave the Heinmans alone. No one messes with big American companies." He thought for a moment, tapping his uneven teeth with a pen. Then he pointed the pen at Matt. "I don't know if it will help, but I had an uncle who had an urge to trace a family that sheltered him in the war. He wrote to the mayors of a few French towns in the area."

"And?"

"He never heard anything more as it happened." Ken sucked the end of his pen. "But we always thought it was a good idea. Do you know where your granddad had his ordeal?"

"Near Calais. That's all."

"And where was the weekend massacre?"

"Near Calais."

"There you are then." Ken's face beamed. "Get on the Internet and find the name of the nearest town to the blood bath, and write a letter to the local mayor. Give him Sophie's name and see if he can track her down for you. Your new girlfriend can help you with the long words. I'm giving you the rest of the day off -- with pay."

"Thanks."

"That's it, kiddo, look on the bright side." Ken seemed to be playing the unaccustomed role of beneficial uncle. "An Internet search could take hours. I need the computer today, so nip on down to Mac the Hack at the Internet café. He'll give you a special rate if you mention my name."

Matt decided that Mac had every reason to be generous. Ken's computer was unreliable and often in need of Mac's expertise for finding lost files.

"Things are fairly quiet here," Ken continued. "We've cleared up that case for Tom Grieves, so you can have a few days off to go to France."

Matt nodded. This certainly wasn't the Ken Habgood who usually sat at the desk.

"And there's more good news, kiddo. You'll find an orange car in the yard. A gift from Tom Grieves. He says you saved his company money. Ring your insurance and get it transferred onto your policy."

"Are you serious?"

"It's yours. A present. You can drive down to the Chamber of Commerce and see Louise Grantham. She'll help you get in touch with the right people -- if you speak to her nicely." Ken winked deliberately.

"I'm not going near Louise. Anyway, she won't want to see me."

"This could be your last chance to patch things up, kiddo. You'd better take a look at your new car or it may disappear -- like Cinderella's coach."

Matt caught the keys that Ken tossed him. He moved towards the door, anxious to discover what sort of vehicle Tom Grieves had kindly donated. The fact that the keys were old and worn didn't register at first.

"I don't want to patch things up," he called back as he went down the stairs. "I'll have a look at the car, then I'll go round to Mac's and get on the Internet. Maybe there's something to the background of the massacre on there. If those Heinmans have a guilty secret, I want to know what it is."

The Past
Chapter 4

New York \-- June 1937

...THEREFORE we are terminating your financial agreement with Berlin at the end of July.

It was a brief note on heavy paper, deeply embossed with an eagle and a Nazi swastika. Albert Becker Heinman swore loudly and lengthily. The Germans were about to pull the plug on DCI. He depended on the Germans for trade, and without their support he'd go broke.

He joined the crowd pushing its way into Macy's large entrance hall. One of the girls in here should know what would excite a woman like Irena.

"Hey, fella, who do you think you're pushing!"

He muttered an apology to the man he had accidentally touched, but his voice was unheard above the noise of customers crowding through the Manhattan department store. An apology by Albert Becker Heinman, president of Domestic Chemicals Incorporated? He stopped beside a perfume counter. This must be one hell of a shopping trip if it made a man of his height apologize to anyone.

What had caused this sudden rejection by the Nazis, when their joint project in the development of artificial fibers was going so well? It had to be the pressure of public opinion from those anti-German protestors campaigning loudly in Madison Gardens just down the street. Did they think there was a war coming?

He usually made a point of keeping well clear of the shops at any time, but especially on Saturdays. He cursed his secretary for being away. A very convenient time for a girl to phone in sick. Some sort of early morning nausea that had been going on for several weeks.

What the hell were secretaries for if they couldn't attend to choosing a wife's birthday present -- or remembering the birthday in the first place? Karen McDowell should have reminded him yesterday, and today she could have come down here to the city. A woman would even be able to buy fancy underwear. He picked up a bottle of perfume and replaced it immediately. Karen McDowell would have known what to choose for Irena. A girl like Karen should stay in good health at all times, especially on Saturdays.

Some small kids, no doubt out to cause trouble, began to drop stink bombs. Innocent passers-by unwittingly crushed the thin glass capsules of glass under their feet while the boys made good their escape. A foul stench of rotten eggs pervaded this section of the largest store in Manhattan.

In the vain hope of masking the odor the counter assistants sprayed priceless fragrances into the air. The resultant mix was an offence to both eggs and perfume. Many of the customers simply laughed with embarrassment before moving swiftly through to the next department. Unfortunately the brats were just ahead, with a pocketful of the bombs.

A few of the customers were rightly furious. Heinman stopped, oblivious to the obnoxious blend of sulphur dioxide and rose petals. He realized that the smell was fuelling something that already existed in the crowded shopping conditions. As the shoppers jostled their way between the counters they exchanged heated words. Their initial amusement at the childish prank was quickly turning to real anger.

A middle-aged woman in her Macy's blouse and skirt, her face made up like a brown mask, reached forward to squirt a generous spray of scent in his direction. It reminded him of the perfume used by Karen. Karen McDowell might not be particularly desirable, but she had a delicate fragrance that attracted the men. It certainly attracted him.

The smell was clearing a little by the time a uniformed commissionaire escorted three white-faced boys to the main entrance. The kids protested their innocence, and would probably continue to do so until they entered one of the adjoining stores to release further foul capsules.

The Nazi letter again filled Heinman's thoughts: the letter on official Third Reich stationery. He stayed motionless, starting to see the way to retain Berlin's funding. One of DCI's experimental substances had such a serious side effect that no one could get near it without becoming emotionally disturbed.

Jacco Morell believed it was something in the smell that triggered the response. The effective agent had yet to be identified. Albert Heinman made for the exit and the fresh air. DCI would apply their existing chemistry to a shunned method of warfare, and the Nazis would buy it as part of their rearmament program. If there was a war in Europe, America would be well out of it. The development program would be extremely rewarding for Domestic Chemicals, especially if the funding came directly from the wealth of Chancellor Hitler's Third Reich.

The work must be a secret between himself and his senior chemist, Jacco Morell -- and Skorensky, the chief executive officer of course. Igor Skorensky, the crazy driver who had nearly killed himself twice in the past twelve months. Senior men in the company had no right to go motor racing in their spare time.

*

IRENA HEINMAN received no birthday present in June 1937. She made it clear that a fiftieth birthday deserved some sort of recognition, even from a man totally immersed in his lifelong passion of work. Instead of the eagerly awaited gift she received a phone call. Her hard-working husband had set out from the office for the Manhattan shops but had been unavoidably diverted. He was now back at DCI. She must be patient and understand that the future of Domestic Chemicals was in the balance.

Seven Years Later
Chapter 5

England \-- June 12, 1944

"GERMANY CALLING. Germany calling."

"Turn that damn row off!"

George Penbridge looked up from his supper. "You watch your lip, woman," he growled in response to his wife's scolding. "There's news on there we don't hear from the BBC."

The oldest son, Jeffrey, began to join in, siding with his father for once. "It's the invasion, Ma. The war's nearly over. Our troops have landed in France and we want to know what's happening."

"Well, if you don't all shut your mouths, we'll none of us know what Lord Haw-Haw is on about. Quiet!"

As several neighbors would later testify, George's voice could be very loud. And extremely angry.

"The British people are facing defeat," whined the nasal tones of William Joyce, nicknamed Lord Haw-Haw by a journalist at the start of the war. The majority of listeners received the aristocratic voice with derision, tempered by the view that there just might be some item of truth amongst the dross.

"On the beaches of Normandy the British and American soldiers are lying dead. The so-called invasion was a failure. Your leaders have lied to you. The superior German army was waiting for your badly prepared landing forces. There are few survivors. I have here some of the names of the dead. Mothers of England, weep for your sons."

While Lord Haw-Haw read out the list, the argument in the Penbridge farm in Berkshire, well to the west of London, was renewed.

"He's just making them up. There's no such people," insisted Mrs. Penbridge as she gathered the empty plates from the table with as much noise as possible.

"Might be," muttered George. "You don't know that, do you, woman."

Mrs. Penbridge dropped the armful of plates into the old earthenware sink. Miraculously none broke. "All I know is the man in the newspaper said Lord Haw-Haw talks rubbish," she bawled. "He just invents the places where bombs land, so we think the Germans know everything that's going on in this country. We don't know if it's true or not, because we're not there to see."

"Exactly, woman. Exactly." George felt he had somehow scored a worthy point here. Even Jeffrey nodded in rare agreement.

Marsh Acre Farm was remote, shunned by the local people. The man from the War Office, sent by Whitehall to make a personal check on the three sons, had confided to colleagues that he would rather face the Germans than make a second visit to Marsh Acre. His official report stated that beyond doubt the sons were working on the land and fulfilling the alternatives to military conscription. There was simply no need for him to seek further confirmation.

The villagers talked of incest, although they used the word "inbreeding". Certainly the Penbridges had been a close family for several generations. The farm had become a tip, and as long as a Penbridge was in residence it would remain one. There was constant fighting at March Acre. The neighbors said that no good would come of all that aggressiveness; it wasn't natural.

"Shut up, woman!" shouted George. "Give the man a chance to tell us something!"

"The German leaders have new wonder weapons," Lord Haw-Haw continued. "They are calling them Vergeltungswaffen \-- Reprisal Weapons. The German people can no longer tolerate the aggressiveness of the British and American warmongers. These V weapons will rain down on you until the politicians who seek war with Germany come to their senses. People of England, when you see these wonder weapons falling on your cities you must tell your leaders to make peace, before your beautiful country is destroyed."

"Rubbish!" shouted Mrs. Penbridge, turning on her uncouth family. "If you believe that, you're mad, the lot of you!"

*

EIGHT HOURS later, at 4.00 a.m. on the thirteenth of June, the first V1 approached London with its high mounted pulse-jet engine emitting an unsteady throb. Suddenly the engine cut. The silence was ominous as the small pilotless aircraft began its dive on the closely packed houses below. Three-quarters of a ton of high explosive killed six people in Bethnal Green, and caused considerable damage to property.

It was the first of four Vergeltungswaffen to arrive that night. Over the next few weeks over eight thousand V1s would be launched at England from the coast of northern France. The British people quickly christened them the doodlebug. Nearly all were targeted at the capital.

*

New York

"BERLITZAN OIL!"

Albert Heinman said the name aloud and it had a good ring to it. Germany would be pleased with the latest batch. For the last seven years Berlin had been funding a DCI project called Berlitzan. They weren't funding it on the scale he'd envisaged in 1937, but Domestic Chemicals Incorporated had made enough progress to ensure regular deliveries of Nazi gold through South America.

He had been bringing his son Frank into the office for the past few months. It was doubtful if the boy would ever be able to run such a complex business as DCI on his own. But as Irena told him, Frank was still young, just six weeks off his twenty-first birthday. And he had the Heinman height. People always respected a tall man, she said.

He stared through the glass screen at young Frank sitting in the outer office, looking blankly at the accounts ledgers. Fussed over by his mother at home and useless at work, he might be tall but he was unable to grow the family beard. The pointed beard had been the hallmark of true Heinmans for generations. Even before the family emigrated to the States, great-grandfather Heinman had sported a pointed beard. It was in the portraits that lined the staircase of the family brownstone, and Albert knew that his own beard looked striking, as befitted the head of an industry that had ridden the slump.

And Frank couldn't even manage a moustache.

He continued to look at the boy. DCI belonged to the Heinmans, and since this was the only son he had, Frank had to make the grade.

Berlitzan oil. He treated this product as his own child. Babies like this were all he'd ever wanted anyway. Frank had been what people politely called a mistake. Perhaps DCI should be going into reliable rubber goods. It was certainly an idea.

The Berlitzan Project had come about by accident on that unhappy birthday of Irena's seven years ago. Chance was a strange thing, but if you were determined enough the dice rolled in your favor. The name had come easily too.

Berlitzan oil. Berl for Berlin, in cryptic recognition of the country that had financed it. "Whatever happens, we must have Berl for Berlin," he remembered saying in the oak benched laboratory one day in 1940.

"Berl for Berlin. But we need a second part. Berl ... and something. What is it?"

Jacco Morell had looked up from the chemical glassware where he'd only been paying partial attention. The product was dangerous stuff to handle.

"It's an oil, Mr. Heinman."

"Damn me, he's got it! I like it! 'It's an oil, Mr. Heinman!' You're damn right it's an oil! Berlitzan oil. Get it?"

Albert Heinman smiled now as he recalled how the Germans had got it three weeks later in July 1940 when war had been raging in Europe for nearly twelve months. A volatile oil, but only a minute quantity. Two gold cylinders, each the size and shape of a cigar tube, containing a few drops of the highly corrosive substance. After testing it on convicted Gypsies, the Nazi High Command made it clear the oil needed improvement. Quickly, if it was to be of any use to them. Very quickly.

But the development of the Berlitzan Project had been slow. The oil's main failing was its lack of effectiveness out of doors. Released in a crowded theatre or cinema it would be reasonably effective, but the Germans had large military targets in mind. They complained it was never powerful enough, and never available in sufficient volume for use on the Allies.

Every month Domestic Chemicals had got a little closer to making a practical weapon. Only gold could contain the highly corrosive Berlitzan oil, so corrosive that it would quickly burn through all other metals within seconds. And it should all have been Nazi gold. Gold for the containers and gold for imbursement. Recently the German authorities had started to lose interest and were reluctant to pay their agreed quota.

The Nazis gave Albert Heinman an ultimatum almost identical to the one in 1937. He must produce the goods at once or they would sever all ties with DCI. He knew that the latest version of Berlitzan oil had been too late to prevent last week's Allied Invasion of France at Normandy.

He had recently persuaded Hitler's heir apparent Hermann Göring to test a small batch of Berlitzan oil using V1 flying bombs. If this was successful, Göring was prepared to field-test the new batch. Heinman felt a great sense of relief. The Germans were talking his product seriously at last.

Berlitzan oil could be delivered onto any civilian population within reach of the V1, in England or on the Continent. Göring was right: the reaction of a civilian population, rather than that of highly trained troops, would demonstrate the effectiveness of Berlitzan oil particularly well. England was the obvious target.

There was only one problem. This new batch of Berlitzan oil would be easier for the Nazi scientists to copy than the original formula, so no way was he leaving it with them for analysis. He would have to go to France to supervise the V1 tests. Maybe he could take young Frank. The experience would be good for the boy. Help him grow up a little. One day Frank might make vice-president. Maybe even president.

*

England \-- July 25 1944

"GERMANY CALLING; Germany calling." The nasal voice of the Anglo-American traitor filled the filthy farmhouse in Marsh Acre.

"For God's sake turn it off!" Alice Penbridge had little patience. Just like the rest of her family.

"Shut up, Ma. We want to hear."

"You watch out, Jeffrey my lad. You just wait until your father gets to you. Don't think you're too old to be getting a taste of that strap of his."

"Hush up, Ma," added Archie, her second son. Archie was now as tall as his older brother. "This is the only reliable news we get."

"Reliable is it!" The assortment of dishes regularly replaced at the local market was banged down on the table. "They'll be hanging that man at the end of the war, you'll see. Now, where's that father of yours? He's going to miss his supper."

Lord Haw-Haw continued his speech, oblivious to the interruptions at Marsh Acre Farm. "For the last few weeks the German weapons of terror have pounded your cities. Your casualties run into millions."

"There you are, Ma," shouted Jeffrey in triumph as he jumped from his chair. "There's nothing about that on the BBC!"

"That's because it's all lies," yelled Mrs. Penbridge, a heavy pan of boiling water in her hand.

Out of respect for his mother's sometimes erratic behavior Jeffrey Penbridge sat down and let the matter rest.

"Soon a new weapon of terror will be on its way across the Channel," the nasal voice on the radio intoned tediously. "People of England, my friends, plead with your leaders to make peace with your well-wishers in Germany. They do not want this war with you."

Alice Penbridge poured the water into the sink and a cloud of steam enveloped her angry figure. "Bloody nonsense," she snapped. "If that's the best program you can find, it's time it went off to save electricity."

"It's a battery!" said Archie.

"It's still electricity." Jeffrey jumped to his feet again.

"Are you turning that damn thing off or do I have to hit it one?" Alice Penbridge held the large iron pan above the old wireless set.

At that moment the door swung open and George Penbridge charged into the low-ceilinged kitchen, his old blue jacket open and his face even redder than usual. "There's one of them doodlebug things come down in the corner of the copse," he gasped. "Bloody thing's not gone off. There's a stick of something in the snout what looks like gold. Come on, don't all sit there gawping. Get the toolbox, Jeffrey lad. Let's have it out afore the army gets here."
Chapter 6

Berkshire Observer, July 28 1944

LUCKY ESCAPE FOR LOCAL VILLAGE

The surprised inhabitants of the village of Lower Marshford were on the receiving end of a German doodlebug last Tuesday evening. This one, which fell in a small wood at Marsh Acre Farm, was without the normal warhead. A Military expert told our reporter that ballast was fitted instead of explosive.

The bomb squad believes the flying bomb could have been an experimental model, possibly fired for range finding. Without the full weight of explosives, the V1 traveled several miles further than normal, passing directly over London to reach the county of Berkshire. The military quickly recovered the bomb, and the remains will now undergo a full examination. Thanks to our courageous pilots, and the dedicated gun crews on the ground, the V1s are now posing less of a threat than they did in the first weeks of attack in June.

A spokesman from the Air Ministry in London is keen to reassure the people of Berkshire that they have little to fear from the flying bombs, which are intended for densely packed areas of civilian population. The Royal Air Force, the spokesman informs us, has dealt many deadly blows to the weapons factories in the Baltic, which the Germans once thought to be beyond the range of our bombers. There have also been exhaustive bombing raids by the Allies on the launch sites on the French coast near Calais. The threat of further attacks has been almost eliminated.

The reporter from the Berkshire Observer seemed unaware of the true details from the crash site, such as the discovery by the army of a small gold cylinder; empty, with the lid unscrewed, found close to the wreckage. The reporter made no mention of the threat from the V2, a rocket of enormous size that could fly so high and so fast it would be beyond the reach of gunfire. He knew nothing about it because the Air Ministry spokesman had remained silent on the subject during the interview.

Top secret sources in Poland warned that the new rockets were all set for a terrifying rain of mass destruction. Launched from mobile sites in the Netherlands, with a range well in excess of two hundred miles, these Vergeltungswaffen were expected to pound the British Isles some time in the autumn. The ministry had every reason to be alarmed. Civilians could never be prepared for a thirteen ton monster of death. If the boffins were correct it would drop from the sky at 3500 miles an hour, without warning, unseen and unheard. There was little point in warning, and thereby alarming, the residents of London -- or Lower Marshford. Where could they shelter?

One item of local news was tucked away on an inside page. It came as no surprise to anyone who knew the family.

DOMESTIC TRAGEDY

It is with great sadness that investigators at the crash site of the flying bomb report the death of Mr. George Penbridge and his family at their isolated farm at Marsh Acre. Members of the Penbridge family have been farming at Marsh Acre for over two hundred years. Police believe that George Penbridge had been emotionally disturbed by the crash of the German V1 on his farm, and shot his family during an argument before taking his own life. Forensic scientists from Reading recovered a shotgun and several spent cartridges from the scene. The coroner has been informed.

France \-- August 1944

SOPHIE BERNAY made an attractive girl by any standards. Just why she'd stayed on at her dead parents' house in the Pas-de-Calais was a puzzle to the remaining inhabitants in the village. Her older sister Martha had left as soon as the English bombs fell. A few gossips concluded, not unreasonably, that such a pretty blonde, with curly hair down to her shoulders, and hips that swayed provocatively -- and a smile that could not possibly be as virtuous as it seemed -- that Sophie must have stayed for the money.

Certainly the Germans who moved in with their strange aircraft, and their skinny metal launching ramp, had been quick to notice her. The ordinary soldiers could only stare. It was the officers who entertained her in private -- or so they whispered in the village. Sophie laughed to herself and shook her head, scattering fair hair across her shoulders. The locals were jealous. There was only one naturally blonde girl in the Pas-de-Calais -- Sophie Bernay -- and the Germans looked after her very well indeed.

The Colonel had come up with some interesting news for once. Sophie usually found what he said boring, for Colonel Röhm babbled endlessly about the glorious future of the Third Reich. But today he let it slip that two important Americans were on their way, bringing something that could prove vital to the German war effort.

She'd never been given an opportunity to flirt with an American before. If she could believe what her neighbors said, the American soldiers -- and the British \-- would shortly overwhelm all Northern France. Perhaps when it happened they would overwhelm her. Meeting Allied soldiers wasn't something she looked forward to with any enthusiasm. These German officers were refined. Real gentlemen her mother would have said if she was still alive. But an RAF bomber had killed her parents exactly two years ago. It was difficult to know whose side to be on.

"Fraulein."

It was Colonel Röhm. The Colonel never took advantage of her body. He seemed more interested in the war than in girls, an observation that made her feel cheated. Not that she wanted anyone as old as the Colonel, but it upset her to think that he never expressed any interest.

"Fraulein, the two Americans arrived in Switzerland yesterday. They are being flown here shortly. I want you to look after the younger one. His name is Frank. His father is Albert Heinman, an important industrial man in America, so make a good impression. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, Herr Colonel."

Sophie experienced an unexpected thrill of anticipation. She remembered seeing American actors in films at the Picture Palace in Calais before the invasion, and the young men looked dazzling. Maybe the meeting would be good after all.

Three hours later she heard the sound of a single-engined aircraft, and ran into the open to watch the ungainly high-winged plane with German markings approach low over the pine trees. The Storch resembled une tipule, a crane fly, as it appeared to hover over the high wire fence before dropping gently to the ground inside the military compound.

*

CAPTAIN ALEC Rider watched the Storch bump to a halt on the sandy soil. He'd read about this German reconnaissance plane, but it amazed him that anything could fly so slowly -- and stop within such a short distance.

"Find out what the hell they put in that bomb!"

They'd not given him much to go on. Major Jackson wanted results, but his instructions were impossibly vague. Doubtless someone high up was leaning on the Major and had told him nothing either. All Alec knew was that he was just one of twenty SOE operatives dropped into northern France two days ago to scour the countryside for operational launch sites for doodlebugs. So here he was a few miles outside Calais, wearing civilian clothes, spying with no military back-up. And what had he been told to look for?

"Germ warfare or something, Captain. It's probably in small gold bottles. They tell me you speak pretty good French. Just blend into the countryside."

Fantastic. An Englishman speaking schoolboy French in an area probably long devoid of young men. Perhaps he could try passing himself off as the village idiot. Major Jackson should be here himself. He'd make a passable imbecile \-- as would the man at the top who'd thought up a plan like this.

So here was the famous Fieseler Storch. Often used by top brass. A clever plane, unbelievably slow, and perfect for reconnaissance. It could land almost anywhere -- as it had now proved. Alec could recall small details quickly. Five German soldiers began to turn the plane, probably preparing it for a quick takeoff.

He noticed that the two tall passengers were being treated with great respect, even though the younger one seemed to be just a lad.

In his right hand Alec held a large French knife courtesy of SOE, Special Operations Executive, the group that ran these clandestine operations. A French implement was essential for a worker, and this chef's knife had been the only genuine article available at the training camp. What did they expect him to do with it? Butcher the whole German army?

"Use it for cutting things. There'll be plenty of reeds there. Try and look useful."

Alec sighed wearily. Major Jackson was a star.

The young passenger carried a black attaché case, clutching it to his chest. He'd already pushed two soldiers away when they offered to carry it.

A young woman came slowly out of the largest hut, obviously aware of the reaction she caused amongst the soldiers as she walked. Even at this distance she looked gorgeous. What would a beautiful blonde be doing on a German site? He smiled to himself. The answer was rather obvious when he came to think of it.

The Storch's engine rose in pitch and the plane rolled forward. It lifted slowly over the high security fence, banked sharply to the right, and disappeared behind the plantation of fir trees on the low hill beyond the camp. Alec Rider turned his attention to the reeds. It wouldn't do to attract attention by standing still, although his worker's pass was up to date \-- or so Major Jackson had assured him. Even his clothes were supposed to be genuine French. At the far end of the reed bed he'd hidden his kitbag containing clothing, six grenades, and a Sten Mk IV. The guards might look dozy but from his training he knew they were as sharp as the knife in his hands -- the chef's knife of surgical steel. Sharp. Razor sharp.

*

"THIS IS Fraulein Bernay."

Colonel Röhm introduced the French girl to the Americans as though she was some priceless work of art, his voice almost hushed.

Sophie heard the Colonel talking in English, and although she couldn't speak the language well, she guessed she was being offered as a play object.

The older one with the pointed beard was obviously a leader, a big man who had all his wits about him. She'd met men like this before. They were iron, totally without feeling. Her Uncle Jacques had been like that. Her mother had said it was because of the trenches in the Great War. Her father had fought in the same war, and he'd been a warm, affectionate man. It was nothing to do with trenches. Uncle Jacques was just a hard, cold stone.

The younger man looked less attractive; a lanky garçon who was trying to grow some sort of moustache. He kept looking around as though scared out of his head. Everyone knew that American soldiers were working their way up from the south, along with the English. An American caught working for the Germans would surely face the firing squad.

She looked at the boy and winked. It was required of her. Whatever the tall young American had in that black case must be important -- if it was vital to the German war effort. A chain connected the case to his wrist. Perhaps it contained a bomb for Hitler!

"Sophie, you will be sitting next to Herr Heinman's son this evening. Later you will entertain him while I speak to his father. I am sure you know what to do." The Colonel spoke quietly, but laughed loudly. His French was excellent.

The older Heinman produced a key and said something to his son in English. The attaché case was released from young Frank's wrist and placed on the end of the long table where everyone could see it while they ate. Sophie stared at it. The Port of Calais would fall soon, and the English would surely pay handsomely for the contents of that case. By changing sides again, she could continue to ensure her safety.

"As you say, Herr Colonel, I know exactly what to do."

*

AS THE SUN disappeared behind a bank of black clouds on the horizon, Alec Rider decided it was time to put his knife away. No Frenchman would be cutting reeds later than this.

The blonde girl started to walk towards the perimeter fence where he was standing. The bouncy spirit that glowed through her eyes fascinated him. He'd been married for ten years, had a nine-year-old son, but there could be no harm in just looking.

"Bonjour," she called through the wire. The girl smiled as she spoke, and wet her lips with her tongue. She must be a born flirt.

He just nodded. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to trust his French without giving his nationality away. Nevertheless his training on observation paid off. The links in the high fencing had been carelessly mended in the corner. Perhaps it was the result of bomb damage from one of the many raids on these weapons sites. The hasty repair was pathetic. A Boy Scout could get through there in the dark.

"Comment ça va?"

He smiled in response to the French girl's inquiry but said nothing. A vicious dark-haired Alsatian, and a sentry with an MP38, were watching from the base of the guard tower, but it was unlikely he'd raised any suspicions.

"My name is Sophie," she said in French. "Who are you?"

Dark clouds moving in from the coast were bringing the daylight to an abrupt end. He shook his head and smiled again, still keeping his mouth firmly closed. Then he returned to the cover of the reeds.

He had two overwhelming memories. The black case on the young man's wrist, and the girl with the blonde hair. The case might contain priceless secrets on Hitler's missile program. And because Sophie was French, not German, she might be persuaded to part with vital military information. A double source of top secret information could be within his grasp.

It would be dark soon. Tonight he would go back for the case -- and back for the girl.
Chapter 7

ALEC RIDER crouched in the shelter of the reeds and tried to absorb every detail in the German compound. V1 bombs. Fieseler 103s to give them their correct name. The details of the airborne craft had been drilled into him during seven days of intensive training. Doodlebugs. Buzz bomb was another popular term back home. The giveaway sign was the metal ramp on slender legs facing the south east coast of England.

He realized that the German military were in a no-win position. If they lit the compound at night they'd draw attention to the site from the air, but total darkness invited a commando attack from the ground. On balance, darkness was probably the safer option. Any sort of lighting would break the essential blackout requirements, and British and American bombers were roaming the skies more freely now that German troops were being rushed south to the defense of Normandy.

Presumably there were some Fieseler doodlebugs on this site, although the long catapult ramp was empty. Alec stood up slowly, trying not to make a sound. The concrete store, heavy with camouflage netting, must be the bunker that held Hitler's terror weapons. The only sound of life on the site came from the large wooden hut by the flag pole. People seemed to be eating in there, and occasionally a flash of light shone from the door as a guard or possibly a servant entered.

A frog croaked in the wide drainage ditch. Another replied from close by. One of the guard dogs barked, and Alec could hear a murmur of voices as the door to the main hut opened again. Two sentries started to laugh in their high tower as they shared a joke. He buried his face in his hands. It had been easy to make decisions on training exercises. You didn't end up dead when you got it wrong.

The door of the large hut opened for longer now, and enough light escaped from the smoky room to reveal the blonde girl slipping out arm in arm with the young man who'd arrived in the Storch. He still carried that black case. They made their way to one of the smaller huts. Alec wondered if the man would keep the case chained to his wrist while....

A light snapped on in the window, bathing a large part of the compound in a blaze of yellow.

One of the guards shouted something in German and a hand reached up quickly from inside the hut to pull the blackout blind shut. The dogs barked for a couple of minutes. Then the site became silent.

Alec Rider fingered his heavy knife. The girl might not want to be liberated; not all French people were ready to receive the British and American troops with joy. Some were doing very nicely, thank you, with the Germans. But at least the girl had not informed on him. She must have been suspicious, the way he'd held back from speaking to her.

He waited and watched for an hour before moving forward to find the weak spot he'd noticed earlier in the wire link fencing. A sound inside the compound. Perhaps a guard, or one of those damn Alsatians.

Then silence again.

The clouds began to thin slightly to show a clear outline of the huts against the horizon. According to his luminous watch it was only just after three a.m.. Surely it wasn't getting light already. The massive doors to the concrete bunker were open, and he could see two men working on a V1 bomb. Maybe the Germans were preparing for an early-morning launch.

As Alec squeezed under the high wire fence, he froze as he saw a faint silhouette of someone coming his way. It looked like the French girl. He stayed, crouched tight against the wire, his chef's knife at the ready. As he reached for the Sten, the so-called Woolworth gun, he realized the shots would attract far too much attention. She might be gorgeous -- but he could kill her with the knife if necessary. The reeds had done little to take the edge off the blade. He increased his grip and the weapon felt reassuring in his hand.

The girl stopped short of the wire, bent down, and began scratching in the earth. The light on the horizon caused a glint from an implement in her hands. A stone rolled from under his foot as he shifted his weight. She stood up and a gasp came from her lips when she saw him.

"Monsieur, vous êtes français?"

"Non, je suis anglais." He was taking one hell of a risk by revealing his nationality. The knife would never take the girl by surprise now. One cry from her would bring the guards running -- if they'd not been alerted already.

The dogs stayed silent.

The frogs croaked.

He clutched the chef's knife, ready to silence the girl for ever.

"You have been spying on me, Englishman?" she asked in French.

"No, I am spying on the camp." He gasped at his own audacity. Admitting to being a spy while wearing civilian clothes was the act of a fool, but the girl seemed to be willing him into openness.

"Me, I hate the Germans, monsieur. I want to be friends with the English." For a moment she paused, just an outline against the sky. "Take me away from here, Tommy," she begged.

"First you must help me." He spoke in no more than a whisper. One of the guards could be passing at any moment. The frogs had suddenly gone quiet.

"You want the secret of the Americans?"

"Americans?"

The girl calling herself Sophie sounded surprised. "I thought you had come to watch the two men in the airplane. They are Americans with a special secret."

He tried to remain calm. "You know the secret?"

"I have stolen it, Tommy, and buried it here for my friends in the Resistance. Look, I will dig it up for you, and we can run away together to England."

Loud voices called to each other on the far side of the compound. Someone blew long blasts on a whistle, a piercing sound of danger, and then a klaxon sounded its urgent warning.

Sophie ran forward and held his arm tightly. "It is too late, Tommy. The treasure will have to stay hidden. Take me with you now."

Lights snapped on in several of the small huts. The whole camp must be waking up. The girl had been found out, and now the soldiers were coming for her. Alec dragged her to the ground and they lay together on the gritty soil, partly hidden by the long grass that grew along the fence. Suddenly more lights blazed around the compound. Bright floodlights that made them raise their hands to shield their eyes.

"We are finis, Tommy. It is the end. We must run!"

Alec held her down with a firm arm. "Restez, mademoiselle," he warned in his halting French. "They do not know we are here. Do not move or they will see us."

A lorry started up. A group of soldiers shouted at each other as they ran towards the heavy doors of the concrete bunker. But as they began to close them, a distant aircraft engine broke into the general background noise of panic. Alec looked through the tall grass in amazement as the soldiers ran to the center of the compound with large torches, waving them into the air. And the doors to the bunker were still open. Did they have a death wish at this site?

"I am frightened, Tommy."

He looked at the girl and noticed a small gold pendant catching the lights from the compound, swinging gently on the pale skin above her white blouse. It was a crucifix, bearing the traditional figure of the crucified Christ. "I am frightened, too. You have another name as well as Sophie?"

"I am Sophie Bernay. What is your name?"

"Je m'appelle..." Should he use his real name? Perhaps not. "Je m'appelle ... Tommy."

Sophie giggled. "All you English soldiers are called Tommy. Give me a little kiss, Tommy, because I am frightened." And she put her lips on his.

He had other things on his mind. "Listen to the plane. It is coming closer."

"It is, I think German, coming here to land."

The girl was bright. No wonder the Germans were waving torches.

"I will find out what is happening," she said. "And then I will come back and you will take me away to England."

Could he trust a girl who worked with the Germans on a top security site?

"Where is the treasure, Sophie?"

"It is hidden in the ground." She pointed to the spot where she'd been bending down. "Gold candles from the Americans' case."

"Do you know the Americans' names?" Any scrap of information might help.

"They are called Heinman." She made a deliberate attempt to sound the H, as though it was an important part of her briefing. "They are father and son."

"Where are they from?"

"America, but that is all I know." Then she moved quickly into the shadows.

The Storch drifted in like a giant toy, the leading edges of its wings glittering in the harsh floodlights on the base as it settled to the ground in a cloud of dust.

Alec felt trapped. Five or six feet away he could see freshly dug earth. The bright perimeter lights glared down on him ready to reveal the slightest movement. Small gold containers were what he'd come to find, and over there in the ground were what the French girl called gold candles. He watched her hurry across to the main hut where she began to talk to one of the officers.

The pilot of the Storch kept the engine racing, the large propeller spinning at speed. Two Germans hurried the older American towards the plane. It looked as though an emergency evacuation was taking place. The young Heinman ran from his hut holding his attaché case. He stormed over to where Sophie was talking with the Colonel, flung the lid open and pointed inside.

Alec slid forward on his stomach to remove one of the objects from the shallow hole. They were gold tubes; but too light, far too light to be solid gold. They seemed to have a separate cap. The top could be unscrewed. He sniffed cautiously as he opened one.

The contents smelt revolting.

One of the guards twisted Sophie's arm behind her back as the young Heinman remonstrated with the Colonel about the empty attaché case. Alec felt suddenly angered by what he saw. Those Germans had no right too humiliate this French girl in front of the whole camp. Perhaps twenty or thirty men were standing around, watching as the Colonel slapped Sophie violently across the face.

The engine of the plane rose in pitch and volume to become a roar. The pilot seemed anxious to leave.

A great rage welled up. Alec snatched the short barreled Sten and fired off a frenzied burst of nine-millimeter ammunition, spraying the soldiers and the Storch. The pilot released the brakes and the momentum in the spinning propeller carried the ungainly aircraft forward. It moved slowly at first, then taxied with increasing speed towards the concrete bunker, its tail bouncing wildly on the uneven ground. He must have hit the pilot with a shot from the Sten.

The burst of fire from the Sten went unchallenged; the Germans were temporarily stunned. Alec could see Sophie and the two Americans running towards him.

A cry of alarm went up as the Storch reached the open doors of the bunker. The wings sheared off, leaving the fuselage to enter at speed.

A flash of brilliance flattened the grass as the explosion rocked the site. Alec remembered little more. The massive blast shook the earth where he stood. It was worse than the shells that had exploded close to his trench on the beach at Dunkirk. The whole site seemed to disintegrate in a ball of fire.

This was torture. This was hell. He was in hell with the Germans, and they were pounding him with bars of iron. Beating him about the head without mercy. Smashing his brain without stopping to rest.

As consciousness returned, the beatings with the iron bars started again. Then came the sweet relief of sleep.

Hours later, as the periods of consciousness grew longer, he began to understand that the iron bars were inside his head. It had been light for some time, but now the sky turned black. A whole day must have passed. He'd received head injuries and was unable to move. He closed his eyes and let the darkness take over.

The night passed slowly until the bright morning sky replaced the starlight, burning his eyes with a painful intensity. Suddenly he knew where he was. The high plants that surrounded him were the reed beds by the Nazi base.

The world had blown up. Bits of memory returned. He'd not received these injuries from the explosion. He had a vague recollection of the French girl, Sophie Bernay, helping him to his feet. And the Americans called Heinman. The older man. There was something else.

Two gold rings.

The knife.

A grenade in the American's mouth.

The knife had been sharp.

Anger. Anger against the Germans. Anger against the Americans. Sophie's face. Blood. Screaming. The explosion....

Then the silence.

He made his first move since regaining consciousness, cautiously touching his head. He could vaguely remember someone striking him heavily.

The occasional sound of voices drifted across the reeds. German voices mixed with the pain that wracked his body. He guessed that his mind was beginning to hallucinate. He'd done something terrible with the grenade and the knife. The insanity of his fevered brain was too vivid. The memories were confused and terrifying. Impossible, totally repulsive.

He rolled onto his side to be sick.
Chapter 8

SECURITY LIGHTS shone around the site; temporary bulbs strung up on hastily erected gantries, scarcely penetrating the darkness that blanketed the scene of destruction. Resting had done him good. Alec Rider found he could stand without too much pain.

Unless he'd totally lost track of time, the MTB would be ready tomorrow night to collect him and his colleagues from Strouanne on the French coast, between Wissant and Cap Blanc-Nez. The long walk would be difficult in the dark, but far less dangerous than crossing hostile territory in daylight. The kitbag was important: it now contained something vital. He couldn't bring himself to loosen the draw cord.

The main concrete building had disintegrated; the wooden huts blown away like paper. Sophie Bernay had gone. There seemed to be no one left, apart from a group of Wehrmacht soldiers loading lorries with what little remained on this launch site for the Führer's Vergeltungswaffen. The runaway Storch had ripped into the V1 storage bunker, and the resulting explosion had devastated the entire area.

Gold!

Suddenly he remembered Sophie's gold candles. The corner of the compound was now under a heap of concrete panels dumped by the soldiers clearing the debris. Major Jackson had told him to find poison gas in gold cylinders, but it was impossible to dig for them now. Perhaps they weren't important. Maybe they were some form of payment from the two Americans for services rendered. Within a few weeks, the Allies would overrun this part of France. The gold might be a lucky find that would change some soldier's life for ever.

Alec accepted that he'd failed. Sophie Bernay would have known why the two Americans had been here. Sophie was the sort of girl who'd make it her business to ask things, to find out answers.

Just thinking about Sophie made him tense.

He had an indistinct memory of Sophie Bernay speaking after the explosion. And the Americans; the Heinmans and Sophie talking together, having an argument. The blow on his head had caused more than concussion. It had blotted something out. Something he did not even want to remember.

*

THE MTB CAME on time to the rescue point at Strouanne. Six of his colleagues were waiting with him. A total of seven SOE men -- out of twenty who'd been dropped off. Casualties on that scale made a blow on the head seem trivial.

He sat by himself below decks in the cramped cabin, leaving the others above to joke and exchange stories of their experiences in France. None had come up with any secret warheads, but several had the locations of operational V1 sites for immediate bombing.

But Alec felt ill at ease. His site had been the one -- and he had let Major Jackson down. That was not strictly true. Possibly the kitbag held some evidence. Speculation of the contents made him sweat.

*

BACK AT the base, Major Jackson tried to sound positive as he greeted the seven SOE operatives with hackneyed comments. They were not to worry, he told them; they'd done a grand job. They were all brave men, and their thirteen colleagues would no doubt be back in England within a day or two. Perhaps they'd run into a few small problems. Alec knew he would never see them again.

When he entered the room for the debriefing session the first person he noticed was Major Jackson at his desk, with two other men beside him. These two were not in uniform and were not introduced, but they had American accents. Alec wasn't surprised; this was a joint forces' operation. Men were selected here for special missions irrespective of nationality. Even Padre Hawkins was Canadian. He'd developed a special relationship with the padre, though he rarely went to the camp church.

"Captain Rider, we'll speak to you first. Let's hear how you got on."

He wondered if he was to be disciplined for his failure to retrieve the gold samples. He lowered his eyes as he spoke. "I'm afraid my head took a bit of a knock."

"Yes, nasty one that, but the MO thinks you'll soon be as right as rain. Something in that kitbag for us?"

Alec told the parts of the story he could recall. The name of the Americans? He'd heard Sophie say it. A name like Heinemann ... or Heinman. That was it. Two Americans called Heinman. He remembered how Sophie Bernay had taken care to sound the H which was normally silent in French.

Major Jackson seemed to be taking little interest in the news of possible United States involvement. "We'll make a few inquiries," he said lightly. "But they won't be American. Some bloody Krauts by the sound of it." He suddenly smiled. "Can't complain about the place blowing up, can we? Saved us a bombing raid, what! You must be one hell of a shot with that plumber's delight."

"The Sten? Just a lucky hit on the pilot as he was opening the throttle, Major."

"Lucky my foot! You're going to get a gong out of this, you see if you're not. I'm putting your name forward to the Colonel. He'll give it the highest backing. Now, let's take a little look in that bag of tricks you've brought back."

"No!" He clutched the kitbag tightly to his body, an involuntary movement that frightened him by its severity.

"Oh, come now, Captain. Whatever you've got in there belongs to the military. You've had a nasty shock to the system but you'll get over it with a bit of rest in the country."

Still he held onto the kitbag.

The Major took a deep breath. He was senior to Alec in both rank and years. "Captain Rider, this is an order. Open it!"

Grudgingly Alec loosened the cord and tipped the bag on its side. The long French knife, streaked brown with dried blood, rattled across the table.

Major Jackson laughed as though trying to coax a reluctant child. "Well, it looks like you put it to good use. What's next?"

Alec tipped the bag again. The Major and the two men gasped with horror as Alec picked up a human hand wearing a large signet ring on the middle finger.

"My God, man, what have you done?" Major Jackson leapt to his feet and stood back a few paces.

"It's ... I don't know, sir, I can't remember." He sat down and began to breathe great gulps of air.

Major Jackson came forward cautiously. "That's one hell of a souvenir to bring back from France, Captain Rider."

"Yes, Major. Perhaps when I remember more about it..."

Major Jackson peered into the kitbag. "Any other nasty surprises in store?"

Three grenades, the Sten, and various items of clothing. Nothing else. Tipping the kitbag upside down he shook it to prove that everything was out.

A small item fell onto the floor. He reached down and retrieved it.

"What's that, Rider?"

Alec let out a cry of agony.

"Pass it to me, Captain." The Major's voice was firm. "It looks like a gold cross."

"It is, Major." He felt faint again. He'd returned with a human hand and Sophie's gold cross. "I think I killed the girl, Major. That's her cross. I'd like to see the padre."

The Major laughed nervously. "That's not a girl's hand, Rider."

"I seem to have killed more than one person out there. I'd still like to see the padre, Major."

"You've not brought back any of those gold candles you were telling us about?"

"The girl tried to help me. I told her I'd bring her back to England. She..." He let his head drop forward. "I just don't remember. There's so much I just don't know any more."

"Don't want to know!" snapped one of the two men sitting in on the debriefing.

"That must be her blood on the knife," Alec said hesitantly. He found further talk impossible as he took a long, hard look at the hand on the table. The middle finger had gone blue around the gold ring. Elsewhere the skin looked white and wrinkled, like a cut of cheap pork at the butcher's. The whiteness of the flesh emphasized the dirt behind the fingernails. It was disgusting.

He felt his body sway. "If you'll excuse me, Major, I need some fresh air."

*

New York

"WELL, BUDDY, I see you managed to get your old man killed in France." Skorensky grinned. "Boy, you certainly blew that trip."

Frank Becker Heinman sat at his desk, his right arm in a sling, and looked apprehensively at the chief executive officer of DCI. He had to find a way to put this man in his place. Thanks to his father's stupidity, he'd suddenly found himself president of a pharmaceutical company, a few days off his twenty-first birthday.

The senior staff must be made to think he was hard, like his father. "Watch it, Skorensky; that's my father your talking about."

"I didn't mean no disrespect, Frank."

He detected the change in Skorensky's face. Maybe he should remind the middle-aged man of a few facts. "I'm sure you didn't, Skorensky. Only a fool would risk putting his job on the line."

"Like I said, Mr. Heinman, I didn't mean no disrespect."

Frank realized that the form of address had changed from buddy to Frank to Mr. Heinman. He tried to force a smile, but the deep cut on his chin made him wince instead. A fragment of the English soldier's grenade had ripped away a small piece of flesh. He hoped that Skorensky wouldn't notice the sweat on the palms of his hands. "We could be in trouble over our involvement with the Nazis."

Skorensky winked. "DCI could, Mr. Heinman."

Frank Heinman felt a shiver of panic. "We all could, Skorensky. Me as the new president, you as chief executive officer, and Jacco Morell as chief scientist. We should have stopped all contact with the Nazis when Uncle Sam went to war. DCI has been in too deep with the Berlitzan Project." He wiped his hands in his handkerchief. "They could put the three of us in the chair for it. Well, you two anyway. I guess I'm too young."

"Don't go worrying yourself over Jacco Morell, Mr. Heinman. He ... sort of took off, as soon as the word came through of your father's death."

The news that the chief scientist was missing came as a surprise. He'd been planning to interview Jacco Morell next. "What about his family?"

"No problem, Mr. Heinman." Skorensky smiled slyly. "Jacco Morell didn't have a family over here. He'll not be telling anyone about the Berlitzan Project."

Frank gripped the edge of the desk with his left hand, his right arm held tightly by the sling the German doctors had given him when they'd set the smashed bones. "Is anything missing?"

The sly smile vanished. "Nothing, Mr. Heinman. I've checked out the safe. No papers out of order, no chemicals unaccounted for. People are saying Jacco missed your father and just took off."

"You didn't...?" Hell, he missed his father.

Skorensky turned on a conniving grin. "I'm here to help you, Mr. Heinman. You wait until you're properly better before you worry your young head about the business. That damage to your arm ain't gonna heal overnight. And your chin still looks a mess, if you'll excuse me saying it."

Frank began to feel anxious again. "But you've covered up the death of my father in France?"

"It's like I told you, Mr. Heinman. Officially, your father disappeared on a hunting trip up in Alaska. A good one that, seeing as there's no body. And you got those injuries when you fell trying to rescue him. There'll be no big deal made if you stick to the script."

Frank breathed more easily. The tightness in his chest eased slightly. "You're a reliable man, Skorensky." He wiped his hands again in his handkerchief and noticed a small ink stain on his father's ... on his desk. "I guess our troubles didn't disappear with Jacco Morell."

"You're right there, Mr. Heinman."

Skorensky had the facial expression of a devoted and trustworthy servant. Frank recognized it as the expression that had caused his father so much pleasure. It was a false servitude, and it brought little relief now. He rubbed the ink mark with his thumb but it stayed put. "They can't touch us for what happened in France."

"That's correct, Mr. Heinman. Not if you've got it right. Some big explosion, and all the Berlitzan oil destroyed."

Frank nodded. "You're right, Skorensky."

"And Mr. Heinman beyond recognition -- if you'll excuse me saying so."

"Totally beyond recognition. Even if the American GIs dig him up, they'll never know who it is. Not after what that grenade did."

"What about the signet rings, Mr. Heinman?"

He knew! The rat knew! The expression on Skorensky's face gave him away. He just sat there, with those stupid innocent eyes, asking about the rings. How the hell had Skorensky found out?

"I fancied there had to be more to it, Mr. Heinman. Your father told me those rings were the badges of office, for the head of DCI to wear. Only you've not put them on since you came back from France, so I thought perhaps..."

"Shut up, Skorensky."

So oily, so suave, and so cocksure of his position. The man was a threat to the company. It all came back to the Berlitzan Project. The Feds could wipe DCI off America if one whisper of their Nazi involvement got out.

"I'm going to need your help, Skorensky." Frank knew he was failing to impress. This small, dark-haired man who'd been at his father's right hand for years probably still saw him as a podgy school kid.

"You ... you don't know the half of the problems ahead, Mr. Heinman."

Frank took one look at his father's choice of company chief executive officer. The man had glanced suggestively at the outer office where the glass screen allowed the secretary's head to be seen at the typewriter. "Karen McDowell?"

"Afraid so, Mr. Heinman. Your father's put one up her, so to speak. Not the first time either, so she claims. It seems he arranged things for her with money in '37."

It was as though one of those German flying bombs had smashed into the Manhattan office. "She's ... she's not serious?"

Skorensky's eyes told Frank that Karen was serious. They also told him that the chief executive officer was rather enjoying this moment.

He jumped to his feet. "She has proof?"

Skorensky tipped his chair back slowly. "She has what she calls ample proof -- about both occasions. I also think she knows something about the Project."

He took out his white handkerchief again, still damp from the sweat on his hands. "Who else knows about this?"

"She's very discreet, Mr. Heinman. She thinks it might help the company if you dealt with it informally."

Frank rubbed his chin, cautiously feeling the fresh scar. As president he needed to act with authority -- and the lack of that damn Heinman beard wasn't helping. He twisted the handkerchief round his fingers, and the vomit rising in his throat now reached his mouth. "Skorensky, you've got to help me, before she goes public."
Chapter 9

London

THE FIRST V2 rocket blasted off from its small launch pad in the Netherlands on September 8 1944, and crashed without warning on the houses of Chiswick in west London during the evening mealtime.

Alec Rider heard the explosion from several miles away. He tried to discover the reason for the noise by tuning to the BBC news. The explanation of a gas explosion convinced nobody. Within days the capital reeled under an onslaught of several hundred terrifying Wunderwaffen.

At first the British authorities managed to keep the worst details of the monster rocket secret, afraid that panic might set in. But news soon got round amongst the Londoners. Air raid warnings were useless, for the military experts could find no way to detect a missile dropping vertically at five times the speed of sound. One moment life was normal -- as normal as life could be in a heavily bombed city -- then the clear and silent sky brought an explosion of earthquake proportions, flattening houses within a radius of many streets.

Churchill was desperate to find a way to halt the carnage. By now one thousand of the massive V2s had been launched, with six hundred of them hitting London. The British Prime Minister had already ordered heavy bombing raids against German cities, but he admitted in secret that the Germans could win the war within a matter of weeks.

Alec Rider quickly came to the same conclusion.

The army sent a summons for him to return from sick leave for questioning. No, he told Major Jackson in the same office where he had been debriefed following the pick-up from Strouanne, the compound in the Pas-de-Calais could not possibly have been a launch pad for a giant rocket. Surely the British knew all about the V1 sites by now, since they had already overrun most of northern France close to the coast.

"Thank you, Captain. It would appear we have killed one monster, to be confronted by a worse contender for a Nazi victory." The Major sat forward in his chair. "Feeling better, old chap?"

"I think so, Major. Are you getting another team together?"

"Perhaps, but nothing as erotic as rescuing French beauties from the evil Hun. We might have a trip to Holland lined up for a lucky few. That's where most of these big rockets seem to be coming from. The Jerries are using mobile launch sites -- in residential areas."

"The MO says I should be fit soon."

"But the padre has some doubts I gather."

"With all due respect to Padre Hawkins, Major, he's not exactly proper army, so to speak." Alec tried to hide his disappointment at the rebuttal. He wanted to pay the Nazis back for his ruined life.

Padre Hawkins had been a good comforter, a close friend through the early stages of recovery. He liked the padre, a Canadian by birth, both of them thrown into life at the deep end by this war, both struggling to stay afloat.

Fergus Hawkins always had something sensible to share each time they went under.

"Our boys have had a little think about the name you gave us. Heinemann wasn't it?"

"Heinman, Major."

"Same difference. It's still German. We think you got confused about who was who over there." The Major opened a drawer. "There's to be no gong I'm afraid, but you can have these back as a little memento of a bloody good effort on French soil. Besides, the army doesn't need jewelry." He tossed the signet ring and small crucifix onto the desk. "Have a little chat with the padre this afternoon. It's very healing, you know."

Alec reached for the objects. Healing? The memory of that severed hand falling from the kit bag would never heal. It had seared itself into his brain to stay for eternity, but he could cope with it. What really screwed him up were the half-memories of Sophie Bernay. Even in his sleep he could see her face, taste her blood on his lips.

"Thanks, Major, I'd like to see Padre Hawkins again."

"Good fellow. I'll fix up a meeting."

*

THE TWO men sat alone.

"I don't want you to think I'm a soft touch or anything, Padre." Alec Rider felt anxious for the future. "But I wouldn't object if you prayed for me when you have a spare five minutes."

He watched Fergus Hawkins sit back, his tall body crammed into the canvas deck chair under the scarlet berries of the mountain ash. The tree just about filled the small back garden. A smell of smoke from a neighbor's bonfire hovered in the air. Autumn wasn't far away now.

"I've never thought of you as a soft touch, Alec." The Canadian reached out and touched his arm. "Not many people are ready to admit they need God -- not when death isn't staring them in the face. And I'm afraid it will always be so."

"Ah, but the difference is I mean it, Padre." Alec could have used his fellow officer's Christian name, but it would have destroyed the relationship. A padre was a padre, and more than an equal. "I still can't remember what happened."

"It's early days yet, Alec. Perhaps after all is said and done, the Lord has erased your memory in order to give you peace."

Alec lay back and watched the clouds change shape high above. "I'm a murderer, Padre. You should be offering me forgiveness, not platitudes. Keep those for your Sunday sermons." He could speak his mind. The understanding between them was good.

Fergus Hawkins set his deck chair back to its maximum inclination to face the low afternoon sun. "Sunny days are like heaven," he said with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Not for the poor sods being shot to hell in France."

"You can't come to terms with killing, can you, Alec." It was just a plain statement.

Alec closed his eyes. In the Pas-de-Calais, he'd been responsible for twenty or thirty deaths within a matter of seconds.

"I can come to terms with killing the Nazi bastards with their flying bombs, but I can't cope with killing an innocent French girl." He turned to face the padre. "You're right, it is pleasant out here on a day like this, on the right side of the Channel. Perhaps I'll retire from the army. Opt for an easy life like yours. Take up holy orders -- in civvy street of course. Hell!" He clutched at the padre's arm. "There was blood on that girl's face. I can see it now."

Fergus took his hand and held it tightly for a moment. "Of course I'll pray for you. You need peace. May God grant you peace."

"May God grant me my memory, Padre."

"Perhaps not, Alec. Perhaps not."

*

New York \-- January 1945

FRANK HEINMAN stood by his secretary's desk, painfully aware of her heavy pregnancy. Skorensky had died in a racing accident a month ago, driving in his usual crazy way. It left him with the problem of finding a new chief executive officer, and the problem of paying off Karen McDowell. He tried not to think of his father having sex with her in this office.

"Karen, I'm planning some major changes in DCI now you're going." He shuffled his feet uneasily, finding the conversation difficult. This was her last day, and he wanted to find out just how much she knew before offering money to care for the baby. With Skorensky out of the way -- conveniently out of the way, although he was reluctant to admit it -- Karen was the final link to the past.

"Frank, you can do what you like. Only I can't see you're ever going to get on top of the problems at DCI."

He recoiled at this use of his first name. His father, Albert, had been a stickler for staff using proper forms of address, but his secretary now spoke to him, the president, with what sounded like contempt. "You've worked for DCI since before the war, Karen."

"Sure, Frank. Not that I knew much about the war at first, what with it happening over in Europe." She seemed tense.

"Did my father...?" He hesitated, but he had to know. "Back in '39, Karen, did my father ever say anything about DCI and the Germans?"

Karen nodded knowingly. "I think he wondered whose side to be on, what with the money coming from the German-American Bund. But I guess he tried to keep sort of neutral \-- like a lot of Americans at that time."

"Do you know anything about a business deal we did with the Germans in '37?"

"Sure, I heard something. Don't forget, I was your father's personal secretary, too."

He took his time before going on. "And what would you say if ... if I told you that DCI has cut itself off from Germany? Totally."

"You mean cut itself off sort of recent?"

He looked at her closely. "How recent would you say?" He could feel the palms of his hands sweating.

She put a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter for a final memo, like she was playing a game. "Your father said he was taking you to northern France. Then he got killed." She swiveled her chair away from the desk.

He stared dumbly. "I didn't realize you knew anything about that trip, Karen."

"Some surprise for our English cousins, so I heard. It wasn't any hunting trip up north, that's for sure."

"But you never said..."

She laughed. "That's right, Frank, I never said. No more than I said anything about the Berlitzan Project."

"You bitch! You've been plotting this for months!" Now he knew why she was uptight.

"I've made Photostats of some papers in the safe. My lawyer is holding them for me. They're ... like ... my insurance."

"Are you threatening me with blackmail?" With Skorensky gone there was no way he could cope with this. Skorensky had wanted to eliminate Karen. He should have let him.

"All I want is something for my future. And the baby's."

"If you think I'm going to marry you, you..."

She shook her head. "Marry you? You're a fool, Frank."

"Then what?"

"Financial security. Not that I want promotion to chief executive or anything. I want out, mister. Your company stinks. But I'll act dumb about the Nazis. It can be a secret between the two of us. Don't go sending anyone after me, or my lawyer will call the cops. I've protected my position, as they say in the movies."

"You bitch, you bitch, you bitch." He couldn't help it; he burst into tears.

She smiled.

He rubbed his eyes and cheeks with the handkerchief he'd been winding round his fingers. "How much do you want?"

"More than you've got, Frank."

"How much?" he repeated, his voice sounding unsteady through the tears.

She had such a confident look on her face. "Why don't you talk it over with your precious mama and see if she'll give me some of her money. Tell her about the deal your father did with the Nazis. And while you're about it, tell her what he did with me in his spare time."

"I can't, Karen. She doesn't know anything about the Berlitzan Project, or about ... you know." He pointed at Karen's bulging stomach. "It would finish her."

"Poor darling momma. But I'm sure you'll find a way. I want more money than you've got, mister, and your ma's a wealthy woman." She began to laugh. "If the kid's a girl, I'm calling her Victoria. A boy, and it's going to be Victor. I want to remember how I came out of this one a winner."

"My father was a fool to do this to you. And I wish to God he'd never got involved with the Nazis."

"It's too late for tears now, Frank. Believe me, one day your grubby little past is going to catch up with you." And she laughed again.

*

London

OVER SIX months had passed since the raid in the Pas-de-Calais; seven agonizing months of a haunted memory. Alec Rider was invalided out of the army in March 1945. Temporary insanity. No one actually said it in his presence. Certainly not his wife. She rarely complained, even though she was finding it hard to cope with a mentally sick husband and an active ten-year-old. Most of the time she ignored him. It was easier that way.

Alec Rider sat alone in the back garden in the spring sunshine. He tried not to fall asleep in the deck chair under the mountain ash which was now covered in white flowers. The dreams made him physically sick. Padre Hawkins had returned to Canada; the army had turned its back; the doctor never called.

The nightmares were more frequent.

The girl, her face covered in blood, opened her mouth.

Then she screamed.

And no one seemed to care.

The Present

Chapter 10

The Present \-- England

MATT RIDER went straight to Mac the Hack's Internet café and started by checking the web pages of the Sunday papers. The story varied slightly from paper to paper, but one thing was clear: the dead Dutchman had been found clutching a gold signet ring. Two of the papers had close-up pictures of the ring, and it looked to be identical to the one his grandfather had brought back from France.

He found a couple of useful addresses for commercial registers in America, and printed out a letter to an organization called NATA, the North American Trades Association in New York. Ken's suggestion sounded good. He had brought some Habgood Securities paper with him and it should give the letter some weight, as well as ensuring confidentiality.

Dear NATA,

I believe your organization has details of many North American businesses, going back over the past one hundred years.

I am researching company history for a client, and wonder if you have a list of staff members of Domestic Chemicals International (DCI) for the period of the Second World War, 1939-1945. My client particularly needs to discover if any members of the Heinman family died within this period, and if so, where and when. Also, were any Heinmans from DCI serving in Europe during the war?

It is possible DCI had a trading partner or subsidiary company operating in Germany during the 1930s and '40s, possibly for the production of chemicals for military use. Do you have any information on this?

Please treat this letter in confidence, as my client does not wish DCI to be aware of his interest.

Yours sincerely,

Matt Rider

He then wrote a letter to the French mayor in the town nearest the site where the ring was found, and posted it on the way to meet Zoé Champanelle at the White Lion.

"Ken's been brilliant. He's giving me time off to find Sophie." He threw his jacket onto the back of a chair in the main bar. "What are you drinking?"

Zoé rose and gave him a restrained hug. Standing up she seemed taller today, certainly taller than Louise. Maybe it was the shoes. In contrast to Louise, Zoé stood gracefully, not like someone auditioning for the leading role in the Hunchback of Nôtre Dame. He checked himself. It wouldn't do to have such final thoughts this early. Maybe the relationship with Louise wasn't completely over.

Something seemed to hold Zoé back from showing typical Gallic affection. Perhaps it was just too soon for anything else. She wanted a glass of white house wine, the first time she'd asked for an alcoholic drink, and Matt took the opportunity to get a pint of beer for himself.

"Monsieur Grieves is going to pay for your car to be mended?" Zoé asked after she had tasted and approved her wine.

"He wanted to award me the Mothercare Cross. Bravery beyond the call of duty. But he's given me an old orange Mini instead. It used to belong to his daughter."

"It is good?"

"She's recently bought a new car, but the garage refused to take the Mini in part exchange."

"You are joking, I think."

Matt laughed. "Generous? You can tell Tom Grieves is in the same club as Ken. Come on, I'll take you for a drive. It's the next best thing to a Ferrari."

Zoé held up her hand. "Now listen, mon ami, I have some news that is bad. Your grandfather, he will be famous."

"How famous?"

Zoé sounded cross. "It is a stupid nurse called Sister Ewing at the South Memorial Hospital. Your grandfather, you told me he was moved there for security \-- oui?"

"Yes," agreed Matt. "And it should never have been allowed. I want to ask him a few questions, but they won't let me visit him until he's settled down. Why, what's happened?"

Zoé leaned closer. "Unfortunately, the hospital sister has what you English call a big mouth. I know, I have worked with women like her in France."

Matt glanced over at the bar. "I fancy something to eat. What's Sister Ewing done?"

"You are going to be mad about it, Matt." Zoé shook her head. "Here is the evening paper. I tried to phone you at the office, but Ken said you might be looking up an old ... an old flame called Louise. What is an old flame?" She made the question sound totally innocent.

"An old girlfriend. Louise is just someone I knew." He shrugged as though the expression was of no consequence, and took the paper. It was folded back at page five. "Anyway, I was at the Internet café all afternoon. On my own."

Zoé raised her eyebrows and looked unconvinced.

Matt studied the write-up. LOCAL WAR HERO ALEC RIDER. The photograph showed his grandfather sitting in a hospital bed, proudly displaying a gold signet ring on his right hand. He groaned in disbelief. A reporter had managed to set foot where even the grandson was forbidden to tread.

"At least he put his teeth in," he observed. "They must have given him a shot of something to seem this alert. Look at this!" Inset in the main photograph was a close-up of the signet ring. "That sister has a nerve. How do you know she's to blame?"

"I telephoned the hospital and pretended to be a reporter wanting a story for a French newspaper."

"Really?"

"Of course. They told me the man from the local paper had got past Sister Ewing by a trick. I think there is more to it than that. I think she recognized the ring and telephoned the paper herself. Perhaps she let the reporter in. I tell you, Matt, I was angry."

Matt felt an unexpected emotional tug. To think that Zoé had made that phone call for him.

"You suppose I did well, Matt?"

"You should take up acting. But I'm not sure the sister's done anything wrong. It's my grandfather's ring, not mine."

Zoé sounded cross. "It is not ethical," she protested. "Hospital staff have no right to get in touch with the press about a patient."

"It's a bit late now."

"I think you want everything kept quiet while you investigate the Dutchman's ring."

"I do, but they won't get the local rag in New York if I'm right about DCI being mixed up in this." Matt folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. "I've had a busy day."

Zoé slipped behind him and began to massage his neck. "You are too tense, mon ami. You must learn to relax."

"I'm learning already." It was amazing the way Zoé did it; her fingers kneading his spine.

"And what have you been doing?"

"I've written a couple of letters."

She ran her fingers up his neck and through his short hair. "Who did you write to?"

"A New York trade association. I asked if any of the Heinmans were traitors, working for the Nazis in the war."

"You were, I hope, a little more subtle than that?"

The massage was over as unexpectedly as it had begun. Perhaps Zoé felt embarrassed, or it could be a calculated move to show promise of what was to come -- something to think about when he was alone. He wished he was back at his place with Zoé now, not on public view in the White Lion.

He sat up and dabbed her playfully on the nose by way of a thank you. "Would I tell you how to care for your patients, Nurse Champanelle? Anyway, if they're guilty, it's time the Heinmans had a wake-up call."

She kissed him on the cheek and seemed to be warming to him at last. Maybe it was the wine. "And who else is getting one of your so tactful letters?"

"It was Ken's idea. I've written to the French mayor where the Dutchman started the riot."

"What did you say to the mayor?"

"I told him about Sophie. And I told him you're a French nurse and you'll go over and attend to him personally if he doesn't reply quickly."

She didn't smile. "Please, do not make the jokes. Just because I am here with you, you must not..."

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." He'd not expected this reaction.

She smiled, but it seemed rather forced. "I am feeling a little tangled. Please forgive me. It is Florian. He is making the big problems for me. What will you do about the newspaper report?"

Matt felt a stab of unease. Who on earth was Florian? Was he the "understanding" Zoé had mentioned on their first meeting in the White Lion? But she wasn't about to offer an explanation.

"I asked you what you will do about the newspaper, Matt."

"Nothing. If I make a fuss they'll probably make sure they keep the story going for a couple of weeks. Fortunately the 'Local War Hero' hasn't been quoted much. He probably wasn't able to remember anything -- apart from the army giving him the ring to keep." Matt pointed to the page. "He says he wants to find the mysterious Fergus Hawkins. That's his old padre. According to the paper, Granddad blew up a Nazi rocket site single-handed. Probably an exaggeration. Says he still wonders about a French girl called Sophie Bernay." He shrugged. "I don't expect any harm's been done. He's not likely to make it into the nationals."

"Ah." Zoé shook her head so that her dark hair fell across her high cheekbones. "When I rang the hospital, they said..."

"I don't want to know." He threw the paper onto the table. "Let's have something to eat from the bar. A French stick?"

"It is crowded and noisy in here tonight, and you told me the food is awful. We will go for a drive in your new car, and you can tell me about your work."

What you mean is, tell you about Louise. Not that he intended to say anything; and he wouldn't ask about Florian. He'd also have to stop making silly jokes.

NORTH AMERICAN TRADES ASSOCIATION

NEW YORK, USA

Dear Mr. Rider,

With reference to your letter which I received today, the Heinman about whom you request information will be Albert Becker Heinman, the wartime president of Domestic Chemicals Incorporated of New York. Albert B. Heinman was not involved in military service, and was killed in a hunting accident in Alaska in August 1944. His body was never recovered, and his young son Frank B. Heinman succeeded him as company president.

Mr. Frank Heinman, although now in his seventies, has only recently retired and continues to take an active financial role in the family-run company. His son, Jason B. Heinman, now holds the position of president. The company has been trading as Domestic Chemicals International since 1966, and is still known as DCI.

You appear to be confused over some of the dates. As a loyal American family, the Heinmans would most definitely not have been doing business with Nazi Germany in the war years.

I suggest you contact Mr. Frank B. Heinman who will be intrigued to learn of your interest, and will be able to provide you with details of DCI's minimal commercial links with Germany in the mid 1930s for the production of artificial fibers.

With regards,

Ingrid Rosestein,

Customer Inquiries Section.

Matt clenched his fists in triumph as he showed Zoé the letter in his lunch break. "I know why Albert Heinman's body wasn't recovered. Alaska? He was working in France \-- and the Dutchman found one of his hands last month. Not trading with Nazi Germany? Two gold signet rings from the same site, both with a D, a C and an I?"

Zoé took the letter. "It sounds perhaps concluant. What next?"

"If the Heinmans did something to my grandfather, I want to nail them to the wall."

"And what will you use as the 'ammer?"

"Sophie, if I can find her. That woman must know something. There's one more person I have to see, and then we wait for the French mayor to dig up Sophie. Well, not literally I hope."

"And your grandfather?"

"He certainly became famous for two days \-- when he got into the nationals."

*

THE CHAMBER of Commerce was a large house in one of the few remaining leafy roads in the area; a former mansion and still glorious, supported by wealthy local business for the benefit of wealthy local business. Matt parked his battered Mini in a slot between two executive cars.

The woman in the front office recognized him as soon as he opened the door. She looked daggers.

"I've come to see Louise Grantham," he said lightly.

He'd always suspected the dragon was a mother figure to Louise; a confidante who viewed him with suspicion whenever he called here.

"I don't imagine Louise will see you, Mr. Rider. Not after what you've done to her. Frankly I'm surprised you've got the..."

"Just ring her and tell her to come down," interrupted Matt, probably confirming all the woman's worst prejudices. Goodness knows what Louise had been saying about him.

"You'll have to wait."

Matt said he wouldn't wait; he'd go upstairs and find Louise.

The woman must have phoned a warning. By the time he got to the top of the impressive marble staircase, the sort seen in costume dramas where a demure maiden walks hesitantly down to take her first dance with the handsome Mr....

"Matt!"

"Louise, I've come to ask you something."

"I thought we weren't seeing each other," she snapped.

"That was your idea, not mine."

A skinny youth in a tight-fitting suit, his black hair greased flat like a pre-war matinee idol, came out of the next office and stayed to watch and listen. Matt noticed that Louise stood more upright than usual, as though her new boyfriend made her feel self-assured. She was Esmerelda, no longer Quasimodo. Even her hair was blonde all the way to the roots.

"Have you come to ask me back?" She seemed to be calming down a little. "You've got a new job?"

"A new car." Matt stared at the matinee idol until he moved downstairs and out of earshot. "I'm trying to find out about a company called DCI, Domestic Chemicals International in New York. What they did in the past, what they're doing now, who runs it. That sort of thing."

It might have been his imagination, perhaps wishful thinking, but Louise seemed disappointed by the practical nature of his request. Maybe she was expecting him to fall to his knees and beg her to think again.

When he was away from Louise he had no problem. But here he wondered if they should give it another go. He looked at her closely, remembering the things they'd shared over the last two years. The good times together as well as the upsets. The misunderstandings.

The betrayal.

And yet he still felt something. You couldn't just wipe out memories like that. Perhaps next time it would be different.

"New York? I can find you the address of an American trade association. They'll have records going back to the war years."

"I've already written to one of them. NATA. The North American Trades Association. I heard back from them this morning. They suggest I contact the ex-president if I want to know anything more. I can't. If this inquiry comes up with an answer I don't want, I'd prefer to keep Domestic Chemicals in the dark."

"In the dark? You surely don't think a trade association is going to treat your letter in confidence." Louise didn't sound critical, just matter of fact. She might be saying it to make him think he couldn't manage without her.

He shrugged. "Why should they worry about a simple question?"

"If you worked here, you'd know that most of the innocent sounding inquiries have a hidden agenda."

"So?"

"We're here to protect our members, so we let them know if anyone's interested in them. If you've written to NATA, your request will have been flagged up with DCI for sure."

"I marked it confidential. What else could I have done?"

"You should have come to me. I could have found out everything you wanted in the company records, and no one would have been the wiser."

"I didn't want to bother you." He spoke cautiously, as though treading on thin ice that could break without warning. "Is it too late to ask for help now?"

"No problem. Alistair's away at a conference. I can stay on this evening and see what I can unearth."

Alistair? So that was his name. Louise hadn't told him before.

The confrontation he'd feared hadn't materialized. Louise sounded composed and reasonable, but this was not the way it would be if they got close again. In spite of his wondering, in spite of his uncertainty, he could see they were no longer right for each other. The magic had leaked away slowly. Alistair wasn't the reason they'd finished. It was over before Alistair came on the scene. They'd stayed together for too long, for no good reason other than a bit of comfort, like a pair of shoes long overdue for replacement. Well done, Alistair, for turning up at the right time. And good luck for the future.

"You're smiling," Louise said in surprise.

"I want to say thanks. For everything." He moved forward and gave her a small hug.

Louise pulled away, but not too quickly. "I'll drop a folder off at Ken's office if I can get anything useful. There's no need for you to call here."

In other words, keep away. And she wouldn't come round to his place either. Not that he expected her to. Ken's office was neutral ground.

"What's it all about?" she asked.

"It's family business."

She just nodded. He was glad he didn't have to explain. At the bottom of the marble staircase he turned to wave, but Louise had gone.

He put his head round the door of the downstairs reception office as he left. The dragon still glowered.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Could you do something for me when Alistair gets back from his conference?"

She looked stuffy and uptight. To her, Alistair was probably always known as Mister someone. "What do you want me to do?"

"Give him a big kiss."

"Mr. Rider!"

"From me."

Saint Somer, Pas-de-Calais, France

Cher Monsieur Rider,

Following the tragic incident at the construction site which falls within my district, I have found it necessary to talk to many of the older inhabitants in an attempt to unravel the past. This has given me the opportunity to ask about the woman you call Sophie Bernay.

I believe that the person you wish to meet is now called Mme Sophie Boissant, who lived in the area until 1945. She was at that time known as Mlle Sophie Bernay and has since returned to take up residence here.

You will understand my reservation at not passing her address directly on to you, since I do not know the purpose of your investigation. If you wish to get in touch with Mme Boissant by letter, I will be pleased to forward any correspondence.

Accept my felicitations,

Alain Oudet

Mayor

Matt read the letter three times before leaving for work. In his lunch break he wrote a long letter to Sophie, in French, and posted it to Mayor Oudet. Sophie was the crucial player in this puzzle. He was already beginning to wish he'd not contacted New York.

New York

THE PAPERS had reported the Dutchman's massacre in detail. It definitely sounded like the effects of Berlitzan oil. The project had surfaced like a bloated corpse at sea, like the rotting body he'd seen being pulled from the East River one fog-bound morning on his way to school.

Frank Heinman sat uncomfortably in his favorite armchair in the Manhattan brownstone that had been the family home for three generations, and threw the file of newspaper cuttings onto the table. The rings in the picture were the DCI signet rings. One ring found by the mad Dutchman, and the other photographed on an old soldier's hand in England. The old soldier must be the Englishman with the Sten, the madman who had mutilated his father back in '44. He'd not known his name before. Alec Rider. Captain Alec Rider.

As soon as he heard about the trouble in France, he knew what had happened. Gold, a bad smell, and then anger. That treasure hunter had dug up one of the DCI gold cylinders of Berlitzan oil. The press wanted to find the owner of the ring and had started to look for someone with the initials DC. The "I" bit seemed to escape them. Perhaps it was too clever for the press. The rings were just a curiosity to the reporters, something for the silly season, and the story looked like it was dead already.

He opened the envelope to read again the letter from Ingrid Rosestein at NATA. A PI called Matt Rider had written to her from an English detective agency.

I am researching company history for a client ... My client particularly needs to discover if any members of the Heinman family died within this period ... any Heinmans from DCI serving in Europe during the war ... Do you know if DCI had a trading partner or subsidiary company operating in Germany during this period? ... chemicals for military use.

Ms. Rosestein was telling him she thought he should be informed. Too damn right he should be! Matt Rider could be Alec Rider's grandson. They came from the same town, and one of these cuttings mentioned a grandson who was a PI. Just what the hell was going on?

He stirred his cup as he stared at the portraits on the wall of the front room he now used as his office. Coffee slopped over the edge into the saucer. His right arm still had occasional spasms.

"Miller!"

The chief executive officer was over from DCI headquarters for his twice-weekly visit, going through a batch of financial papers that required the ex-president's approval.

He pointed to a cutting from the English Sun newspaper. "Miller, see the gold rings in that photograph?"

Miller came across and raised his eyebrows.

"They're the DCI badges of office, Miller. The private symbols of DCI."

"I didn't know." Miller sounded surprised. "Must have been a long time ago, Frank. There's not much to sign today, but we need to discuss some short-term investments."

"I thought the design up. I was thirteen at the time." Frank felt an unexpected pride at the memory. "Father ordered two rings from Tiffany's."

"And then you lost them?" Miller seemed more amused than puzzled. He put the papers on the table. "But you didn't reorder?"

"Hell no!"

Two DCI signet rings. One for his father's left hand, and the promise of the other ring as soon as they returned safely from France, four weeks before his twenty-first.

Frank, my son, our trip to France to meet the Germans will be your best birthday present ever. It will form real character.

His father had been right: the events in France were extremely formative. Helping an Englishman and a French girl mutilate your father beyond recognition had a profound effect on character.

"Nineteen forty-four was a fateful year for DCI, Miller. We were taking a look at some poison gas -- for the Nazis."

"I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't. No one knows but me. But it's left the company with a small problem."

"How small, Frank?"

The CEO sounded like Skorensky with his weasel questions. "We weren't making it or anything. Hell no. The Nazis sent us a sample to look at. We threw it straight back at them. Naturally."

Miller smiled but there was nothing reassuring about the smile. "Naturally, Frank. And I'm sure you're right, it will only be a small problem."

Why did chief executive officers always have a smug way of answering questions, pretending they knew a lot more than they should? "It had better be small, Miller!" he retorted.

Miller tipped his head back as though the ceiling would give inspiration. "Does Jason know about this?"

"You just do as I tell you, Miller, and no more."

Miller shook his head and drew his breath in sharply. "Your son has to be told, Frank. He's president of the company now."

Jason had to be told all right, but he would probably say he was too busy with today's problems to get involved with the past. Company history had never been of interest to his son. There was a way to make sure of Jason's help -- if Hammid Aziz was prepared to co-operate. Hammid Aziz, the slippery arms dealer who had once crossed paths with DCI. Could the man be trusted? He touched his chin. Even the scar felt tender today, so strong were the memories.

"Miller, there's a PI in England called Rider. It looks like he's cracked the meaning of those rings. His grandfather is in some sort of clinic, and the old fellow's been talking about a German missile site. God knows what the two of them could tell the press."

Miller looked up sharply. "Maybe DCI is not so innocent?"

"Miller, I need those rings. Modern Nazi hunters aren't fools."

"And you're involved, Frank? Personally, I mean."

"Hell, Miller, I reckon I am. The Americans would never forgive DCI if the truth got out."

"Then I'll have to tell Jason immediately," insisted Miller. "If you'll excuse me saying it, Frank, you're not the president any longer."

"No!" He banged the coffee table. "I want you to drop everything and go to England where Matt Rider is making himself a real pain in the ass. I want to know what sort of man he is. Look in the local journals. Ask around a bit. Let me know what people are saying. Find out if the press over there has lost interest yet. Got it!"

Within twenty-four hours the CEO boarded the ageing DCI Gulfstream II, leaving Teterboro in New Jersey for Heathrow, England. He felt uneasy about the whole undertaking. Frank Heinman's son Jason, now the new president, should definitely have been told. Jason Heinman could get angry at times.

Chapter 11

England

KEN HABGOOD pushed his leather captain's chair away from the desk as Matt entered the office. He was all smiles. "Come in here a minute, Matt. I want a little chat."

It sounded like bad news. "What's happened, Ken?"

"I don't suppose you know any American newspaper reporters?"

"Personally?"

Ken shrugged. He'd stopped smiling now. "An American called here earlier. He seemed to know you. I spotted he was a phony straight away."

"What did he want?"

"He asked a few questions about you and your family. Said he was doing a follow-up on your grandfather's story. I gave him your home address."

"American? He wasn't called Heinman was he?" Louise was right; his inquiry had been flagged up with DCI.

"Miller. I soon sent him packing."

The name came as something of a relief. "Was he driving?"

Ken's eyes lit up. "A big dark Ford, but he didn't park it here. Left it down the road by the shops."

"And?"

"He took off before I could get the registration number."

"You said he asked questions."

"Nothing important."

Matt perched himself on the edge of Ken's bare desktop. "That letter I sent to New York could have been a mistake. I may have uncovered something big. And I mean big."

"A wealthy client for us?" Ken pulled his red leather chair back to the desk, probably hearing the ring of cash registers. He motioned with his hand for Matt to stand up.

Matt moved to lean against the wall. "There's no money in this, Ken. Not if my grandfather killed the wartime president of Domestic Chemicals."

Ken sounded disappointed. "That's that then. If it all ends in tears, remember what I told you."

"Not to mess with DCI." He was through with Ken's evasive sense of humor. "Did you say anything to Miller about the Heinmans or Domestic Chemicals?"

"Nothing."

It dawned on Matt what Ken had just said. "You gave him my home address?"

"Of course I didn't. I was just winding you up. I kept my mouth zipped. Miller didn't act like a reporter. His questions weren't persistent enough. He seemed uncomfortable. Funny thing is, he did ask if I knew anyone called Sophie Bernay."

"Sophie Bernay?"

"Calm down, kiddo. He'd seen her name in the local rag. I said I'd never heard of her. Anyway, I told him you were going to France and wouldn't be around to answer any questions."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Thanks, Ken, that's just what I needed."

Ken seemed anxious to avoid any further embarrassment. "Have you thought about taking Zoé with you? You two seem to be getting on well. You could call and see her folk. Get your feet under the table."

"I think someone called Florian has already got his feet under the table, and Zoé isn't coming with me. But thanks for your interest."

"There's no need to be so touchy, kiddo. So your relationship is purely platonic?"

"I don't expect you to believe it," Matt said. "And there wouldn't be time to meet Zoé's people, even if she invited me. She comes from the Auvergne, and that's a long way down France." He'd only been there once. It was the last family holiday, before his parents finally split. They had argued and fought all the way down through France. He would have been nine or ten at the time. On the way back they made a detour through the high central area scattered with the remains of over a hundred extinct volcanoes. The thought that there might be prehistoric monsters around every turn had almost made the journey bearable.

"Anywhere's a long way in your orange wreck, kiddo."

Matt came forward and stood with his hands on the desk. "The orange wreck, as you call it, was thrown at me by one of your generous clients when mine got smashed in the line of duty. I can't afford another, so I'm putting up with it. The engine's good, someone's fitted twin carbs, and so far it hasn't let me down. No electronic this and electronic that to go wrong. Just basic engineering. And a basic ride."

"Rather you than me," grinned Ken. "I like a bit of comfort."

Matt felt niggled. "So do I, but I'm not getting it. Even the sunshine roof drips water on my head."

"But only when it rains. You've got to think positive, kiddo."

"I'm positive. I'm the one getting wet. And next time anyone comes here asking questions, tell them you've never heard of me. Okay?"

*

MILTON MILLER knew his first mistake had been to overestimate the friendliness of English PIs. Received politely at Habgood Securities, he'd quickly realized he would learn nothing useful from the man in charge. He wasn't even given the opportunity to meet Matt Rider.

His second mistake was phoning the ex-president to tell him about the abortive visit.

"I thought you'd want to know what's been happening in England, Frank ... Yes, sure, this Matt Rider, he's off to France soon.... No, I don't know why. Hey, and there's a blonde woman mixed up in it somewhere. She's called Sophie Bernay. I got that from a back issue of their local journal. The Habgood guy was like a clam. I can't see why you're ... Yes, sure I'll email you some notes tonight."

Miller fingered the curled lead of the handset. The ex-president was too old to still be playing around at DCI. He should have shut the door and gone home for good when he stepped down last month. There was no reply from the other end, although he could hear Frank Heinman fidgeting and breathing hard.

"Jason's furious. Wants to know why I'm in England, Frank. I told him to see you about it. My advice is to tell him everything."

"You hold on there, Miller. I've spilled my coffee."

Miller waited for the mess to be cleaned up. Jason Heinman should have been given total control of DCI when he took over as president. It was Albert Heinman in the 1930s who had arranged for the oldest surviving Heinman to stay in harness for life -- like the Royal Family in England. DCI wouldn't have survived without the expertise of the company lawyer, always ready to sort out Jason's indiscretions. Simon Urquet was a loyal man who up to now had done everything legally and illegally possible to keep DCI out of trouble.

Jason had been a problem child, so Frank said. Whatever, he'd grown tall and strong, looking just like his father must have been twenty years ago. But Frank had become more stomach than chest recently. Jason even grew a pointed beard, trimmed like the one in his grandfather Albert's portrait. Perhaps he thought the beard made him superior. Miller smiled to himself. Maybe it did. The only downer was the ponytail, which his father couldn't stand. There was little love lost between father and son.

"I'm coming over to England tomorrow." Frank Heinman's voice sounded unsteady. Something was changing in the old man. "I'm using the company jet. Meet me at Heathrow."

"Sure, Frank. But there's nothing more you can do that..."

"We need to talk, Miller, and I hope your hotel's not too expensive. I know what you CEOs are like when you're spending company money."

"You'll approve, Frank."

"Glad to hear it."

Miller replaced the phone and went downstairs. At the reception desk he cancelled his own executive suite as from tomorrow breakfast, changing it for a room on one of the higher floors. He arranged an identical room for Frank Heinman and wondered if the ex-president would accept it without protest.

New York

JASON Becker Heinman finished his phone call and looked at his desk clock. "What the hell are you doing with those papers, Caroline?" he called loudly. "I've been waiting to sign them for the last ten minutes."

"Coming, sir."

He watched his temporary PA hurry in from the outer office. She brought a folder to his desk. He checked through the pages, still warm from the printer, and was about to sign the last sheet when he picked it up and tore it in half. "You stupid girl, these figures don't add up. You have to smarten up and stop making typos." He'd been waiting to have a go at her all week.

"I ... I'm sorry, sir." Caroline went scarlet at the reprimand. "I didn't realize, only I was working in a rush for you, and..."

"Bring it back in five minutes." The work would all be on the computer ready to correct and reprint.

"I need to know..."

"The only thing you'll be needing to know is where to find another job if you don't get a move on. No more mistakes."

She turned as she went out of the office. "Your father left a message while you were making your last call," she said quietly. "He wants you to ring him at home."

He nodded. Caroline was his favorite temp in spite of her slapdash approach to typing. She lacked self-confidence. Hell, the girl was even crying. "Is that all?"

"A foreign gentleman phoned from Washington. He sounded ... well, kind of ... foreign."

"His name?" Jason felt a slight unease at Caroline's hesitance. Paula, his permanent secretary would have been more specific. A foreign gentleman could mean business, or....

"Mr. Aziz." Caroline stared at her pad through her tears. "Mr. Hammid Aziz. He said you know him." She sniffed loudly. "He wants to talk to you."

Jason Heinman felt his pulse race. He'd not spoken to the man for ... five or six years it must be. Aziz was probably after more chemical supplies for export to the Middle East. Chemicals that stayed off the official export records; chemicals for use by militant groups. His under-the-counter deals with Hammid Aziz had to stop now that he was president.

"I'll get the call myself." He motioned to Caroline to close the door as she left.

He flicked through his diary for the Washington number. "Hammid? Becker here." He remembered just in time. He was plain Becker on a private deal like this, not Jason Becker Heinman, president of DCI.

"Ah, Becker, you owe me money."

Something about the man's way of speaking amused him, yet the voice was one that made him cautious. Hammid Aziz always got what he wanted.

"Sure, Hammid, I know the arrangement. But it was a long time ago. Keeping well?"

He glanced through the glass panel to the outer office to make sure Caroline was busy at the computer. It had seemed so simple. A secret deal with Aziz six years ago; some hazardous chemicals the man needed for one of his arms deals. Then the offer of a loan. No, no hurry to repay it, Becker. The agreement had been informal and easy. Then the occasional small request by Aziz for more chemicals, never through the books, and an offer of further loans. Surely Aziz hadn't expected the money back. It was all part of the murky world of chemical warfare and arms dealing.

"I also know the arrangement we have, Becker. You let me have goods, and I pay plenty of money for them. I also lend you half million dollars. It is good for the new president of DCI to have money, eh?"

"And I'm grateful, Hammid. Is there a problem?"

"A big problem for you, Becker. You have two days to pay me back."

England

"LISTEN, MILLER, DCI is deep in it and I'm relying on you to haul the company out." Frank Heinman felt claustrophobic in this cramped hotel room that Miller had booked for him. English hotels sure had a lot to learn on room size.

"Okay, Frank, but I guess there are problems."

"Problems? People are still hunting Nazi war criminals. They'll crucify us over the Berlitzan Project."

"Not me, Frank." Miller laughed nervously. "I wasn't born until 1961."

Frank Heinman yawned loudly. Twice. "I'm tired, Miller. The flight from New Jersey was dreadful. That Gulfstream is hellish old."

Miller stayed silent.

"Tell me again what this guy, Habgood, said about the French girl."

"Nothing, Frank. Well, just what I told you. Matt Rider works for Habgood Securities and he's going to France. I guess he wants to find the woman his grandfather met in 1944. Most of what I know comes from the local newspaper."

"What was that name you got? Sophie Bernay wasn't it? And you said she was blonde?" He became silent for a moment. He could only remember one blonde from that night. Blonde, sexually uncooperative, and French. She'd even laughed at his attempts to....

He turned to look around the hotel bedroom. "This is one hell of a rat hole you've booked me into, Miller. The first thing I'm doing is upgrade. It might suit you up here, but I'm used to a better standard of living than this."

"But, Frank, on the phone you said..."

"Can't say I disapprove of the CEO saving money, Miller, but an ex-president deserves better."

"I'll attend to it right away, Frank. Perhaps there'd be something better for me as well."

He tried with his fifth match to light the free cigar from reception. His left hand was giving trouble again, making it impossible to hold the match. He decided it was caused by tension. "No, you're doing fine where you are, Miller." He burped twice. "Never did like transatlantic flights. The change in time zones plays havoc with my guts. When you've fixed me a new room, you can go out and keep an eye on young Rider."

As Miller left the room Frank recalled Skorensky and his crazy driving back in '44. "And take it easy on the highway," he called. "They drive on the left over here."

*

MATT STOOD outside Habgood Securities after work and waited for Zoé to join him. The hospital had rung to tell him he could visit his grandfather for the first time this evening, and Zoé said she definitely wanted to go with him.

He noticed a large Ford in the road. The man sitting behind the wheel clearly didn't want to be seen, and held a newspaper high enough to conceal all but his eyes. Why did everyone take a PI for a fool? The American who'd come to see Ken had been in a dark Ford like this. Before he could walk up and confront the driver, Matt heard Zoé walking briskly down the street. He turned. She was walking surprisingly rapidly considering the heels on her shoes.

"Are we going straight to see your grandfather?" she asked, sounding out of breath as she gave him a brief kiss on the cheek.

He opened the door of the Mini for Zoé to get in. He still felt embarrassed by the bright orange color. "If that's okay with you. I warn you, it could be unpleasant at the South Memorial."

"I know. Psychiatric hospitals are the places most depressing all over the world."

Matt divided his attention between Zoé and the big Ford. "Anyway, Granddad's only there for a few weeks."

"Perhaps," said Zoé.

"What does that mean?"

"It means perhaps."

Matt let it drop. He didn't want to think about a permanent future for anyone in a secure hospital. "Push the window open, Zoé. This car stinks of damp."

"Of course it does. This car, it is so old."

Matt grunted. "Older than old. It's a wreck."

The Ford moved off behind them as they came out of the service yard, the driver keeping well back. Matt watched in the rear-view mirror and decided he wasn't having anyone snooping on his movements.

"Excuse the speed."

He put his foot down and the engine responded immediately. It still felt strange to sit so close to the road and so close to the front of the car, but he could fling the Mini around on its rock hard suspension with a surprising lack of restraint. The South Memorial Hospital was at least a half hour drive, but why go the direct route? The big Ford would have fun keeping up on minor roads.

Zoé pulled her collar up against the wind ripping through the open window. "Is it all right if I close it a little?"

"Go on, but don't turn round. We're being followed."

Zoé pushed the window nearly shut. "Is this some kind of a silly joke?"

"It happens from time to time."

The route out of town went around a steep hill known locally as the Mount before joining the winding road over the grassy downs. Matt knew that in a couple of miles the road would dip towards a bend where the camber was all wrong. Huge beech trees lined both sides of the road, their spreading branches throwing the corner into shadow. He remembered how in his younger days he'd taken great delight in setting up the angle of his old Fiesta XR2, foot flat on the floor, drifting through the radius on full throttle. It would be interesting to see what the Mini made of the maneuver.

There were no vehicles ahead. There hardly ever were. Matt applied full power as the road fell away towards the trees. As he balanced the car for the adverse camber he glanced in his mirror. The driver of the Ford had closed the gap.

The Mini, its front tires protesting, drifted in a series of ragged steps through the bend. Matt kept his foot on the floor and let the car surge through the fast twists that followed in quick succession, then eased back.

"Can I open my eyes?" asked Zoé, her voice faint.

Matt looked in the mirror. "He's gone."

"Gone to change his underwear perhaps?"

"Nobody asked him to stay with us." He tried to change up to a non-existent fifth gear. Zoé was right, he'd probably scared the pants off the man.

The red and white sign of the hospital was too prominent to miss. It made a bit of a change from the subtle green and gold of the Saint Monica's board. They drove round the back to the area set aside for visitors.

They were early; visiting time had only just begun. The car following them down the slope went into a staff parking bay. With some relief Matt noticed it was an old Opal. The Ford might have been in some sort of trouble on the bend, or maybe the driver had lost interest. Certainly no one had followed them the rest of the way. The orange Mini was becoming more appealing every day he drove it. It was just a shame it was such a wreck.

It took nearly ten minutes to be briefed before being taken upstairs to the room where his grandfather was in bed. Matt smiled at him lying against a pile of pillows. The nurse explained that he still needed to be sedated. Not so heavily today, she said, but still sedated. Matt leaned over the bed. His grandfather's eyes stayed open, staring at the ceiling.

"Evening, Granddad," he said softly, so as not to cause alarm.

"Who's there?" The eyes were either sightless, or the brain was switched off.

"It's Matt, Granddad. And I've brought a friend. She's called Zoé."

The pathetic figure in blue hospital pajamas seemed to be waking from a heavy sleep. Recognition was slow.

"Sit down, Matt."

Matt looked at the nurse. "You can leave us now," he said.

She shook her head firmly. "Out of the question, Mr. Rider. Dr. Jamieson says your grandfather is not to be left alone with members of the public."

"Except reporters," he retorted.

The nurse reddened.

"I don't suppose Sister Ewing is here," he added.

"Sister Ewing is on nights this week." The nurse wriggled uncomfortably.

Matt began to feel awkward. The nurses had a thankless job to do, and he wasn't helping. "Okay, I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that I'm not used to places like this."

His grandfather seemed so feeble with his teeth out. They were probably in the plastic box on the bedside cabinet. His eyes looked red and inflamed, either from lack of sleep or from the medication they'd been pumping into him. Matt took hold of the wrinkled hand and watched the gold ring glint. His grandfather was nearly ninety, but he often looked older. About a hundred and fifty today.

The red eyes blinked quickly a few times, as though the rapid blinking would clear the mind. "I can't get it off, you know. Major Jackson gave it back to me. He said I deserved it. I cut a man's hand off to get that ring." He began to shake. "There were two rings. I think I cut both hands off." The eyes looked anxiously at Matt. "Are you Major Jackson?"

Matt forced a small laugh as he glanced self-consciously at the nurse. "I'm Matt, your grandson."

Again the slight awakening. "Yes, of course. Matt, my lad, how are you? It must be twenty years since I saw you."

"It's about two weeks," said Matt quietly. "You were in Saint Monica's. I expect you'll go back there soon."

A man in hospital pajamas and dressing gown shuffled at a snail's pace past the open door, shouting abuse at the nurse holding his arm.

"God save me from old age," Matt whispered to Zoé as he took hold of her hand. Then he raised his voice. "I think I've found the girl you met in France, Granddad."

Zoé pulled her chair closer to the bed as though one of the family. "You said her name was Sophie," she added.

"I killed Sophie." The voice trembled as it rose in volume. "I don't remember, that's the bloody trouble. I blame those two Heinmans for everything."

Matt patted his grandfather on the shoulder. "Don't upset yourself."

"Blonde she was." The wrinkled hands caught hold of Matt's arm. "I fancied her, Matt, I really fancied her. I wanted to bring her back to Blighty and set up a love nest. Not that your grandmother would have liked it -- I'd been married ten years!"

"You've told me that before, Granddad." Matt could have added, "Lots of times." The build-up for the joke was very, very familiar. It was new to Zoé. She was laughing.

The nurse just stared. But what the hell, this old man had been through enough for his country, and he was entitled to talk about his exploits. He'd been a hero, but the world had passed him by. Heroes were soon forgotten when they were less than physically and mentally perfect.

"Sophie isn't dead. I'm going to France to see her." Matt leaned forward to make sure his grandfather understood. "She'll know what happened to you."

The information was received without recognition. Matt knew that for years everyone had been telling his grandfather to forget about the girl. He'd often tried to trot out the same banality himself.

Supposing he could persuade the ageing Sophie to come back with him from France; would his grandfather know the woman again anyway, after all this time? Ken was right, any French woman would do as far as his grandfather was concerned.

The medication was fast reclaiming the patient. Further explanation seemed pointless. The eyes became sightless again, staring at the ceiling. "Yes, find Sophie for me, Matt," his grandfather said indistinctly. "But I think she's dead." The eyes finally closed.

"It would be best if you left now, Mr. Rider." The nurse's voice carried authority.

Matt pulled the two chairs back to the side of the room. "I'm going to France to find a woman he knew," he said.

"That will be nice for him."

It wasn't worth any further explanation. No one took the old man's mental trauma seriously; not even the medical staff.

Something told Matt to drive back across the downs, just to make sure the Ford hadn't come off at the bend. Not that he'd feel guilty. People shouldn't try their hand at tailing unless they could handle their own vehicle properly.

"I've always liked my granddad." He took the sweeping bends a little more easily as he chatted. "My parents thought he was a nuisance, but then they didn't like each other either."

"He was a nuisance to the family?" asked Zoé.

"Not to me he wasn't. He was a lovely old grandfather who used to laugh and joke, play tricks, and tell outrageous stories about the war. Perhaps the stories were true. Well, some of them. Maybe."

The ambulance, its blue lights flashing, almost blocked the road. The police watched while the crew from a breakdown truck connected a chain to the wreckage of a dark Ford jammed between the densely packed beech trees. A police officer signaled to Matt to wait.

"Anyone hurt?"

The police officer studied the Mini's tax disc and number plate. He would be from the Trinity Green police station where Matt had once worked, but he didn't know him.

"Chest injuries mostly. Looks like he was going too fast. Always been trouble, this bend. We've only just cut him free. An American, by his papers."

Matt knew he'd be paranoid to imagine the Heinmans were after him. "Do you have his name?"

Fortunately the Mini's tax disc still had eleven days to run. The policeman raised his eyebrows. "Miller. Milton Miller."

"Can I see him? I might know who he is."

The policeman glanced towards the ambulance. The emergency team had the man on a stretcher. "Okay, but don't talk to him."

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Matt. He walked across the clearing and crouched down by the stretcher. "Is your name Miller?" he demanded.

The driver of the Ford, a man aged about fifty, had blood on his forehead, but his eyes were open. He looked at Matt in surprise. "You're Matt Rider!"

"Never mind about me. Is your name Miller?"

The man nodded. He was probably in shock and therefore likely to tell the truth.

"And you work for DCI?"

The man nodded again.

"Did Mr. Heinman send you?"

Matt thought he detected a nod of the head.

"Tell your boss to keep away from me. Okay?"

The ambulance crew pushed Matt aside. "We're taking the patient to accident and emergency," a man in green coveralls told him.

The policeman came running across. "I told you not to talk to him."

Matt leaned over the man on the stretcher. He had time for a final question. "What does Mr. Heinman want with me?"

The man just stared.

Matt walked back to his car. He should have asked the last question first.

The ambulance turned in the road and drove off, siren screaming.

"Do you know him?" asked the policeman who had followed Matt to the Mini.

"I think he's a newspaper reporter from America." Matt slipped the car into gear and drove slowly from the scene.

Zoé had been sitting quietly. "What is going on?" she demanded.

"It's the man who called to see Ken. He told Ken he's from the press. He isn't. He works for DCI."

"And you thought it was Monsieur 'Einman?" Zoé began to laugh.

He decided to say nothing.

"Surely you cannot think Monsieur 'Einman would travel all the way from New York to spy on you?"

"If the Heinmans weren't in France in the war, why did they send Miller over to snoop around? They must be worried about something." He floored the accelerator as they crested the hill.

"It might be a coincidence."

"And it might not," he retorted, stamping hard on the brakes for a bend he'd forgotten about. "My parents were too busy scrapping to find out what had really happened to Granddad. I've got a horrible feeling we've left it too late to get justice."

Zoé sighed. "I was right, I think, about the hospital. It is depressing. The problem of your grandfather, it is not yours. Your grandmother should have got treatment for him."

"My grandmother was a proud woman. She never talked about my grandfather's problems. She believed that they'd go away if she hushed them up."

"But she was wrong."

"Yes, she was wrong."

Zoé stayed silent for a few minutes as they drove back to town. Then she turned sideways in the passenger seat and put her hand on his shoulder. "Would you like me to come with you to France?"

She asked the question so naturally.

He stopped the car and stared at Zoé. Her perfume was amazing; it worked like an aphrodisiac. Not that he needed one. A sedative might be more appropriate -- thanks to Zoé still being involved with someone called Florian. He found himself wondering what Zoé would look like in twenty, thirty years. He knew what Louise would look like; he'd met her mother.

"What are you thinking about, Matt?"

He bet Zoé's mother looked slender and graceful. It was funny, the older he got, the more he became conscious of the need to have some thought for the future. A few years ago it was how a girl looked now that counted, not the sight she might become one day. Mrs. Habgood had probably looked okay once -- no, probably not. Not that he could ask Ken.

"Well, do you want me to come to France or not?"

"Are you sure?" Perhaps he'd not answered straight away because he was uneasy about making a commitment so soon after finishing with Louise. He tried not to sound too hesitant; tried not to sound like a tongue-tied adolescent setting up his first date.

"But separate rooms."

"If that's what you want, Zoé."

She nodded. "It's what Florian would want."

Chapter 12

JASON HEINMAN looked down through the rapidly thinning cloud at the flat fields and drab rows of houses on the approach to Heathrow. It was probably raining down there. His father was getting him over to England on some damn fool errand, making him come by scheduled airline rather than use the company jet. The company had to save money, so his father said. Anyway, business class on United Airlines was a damn sight safer than the DCI Gulfstream.

His father had bought the Gulfstream II as a company airplane eleven years ago, and it had seemed old then. It replaced an even older propeller aircraft, in order to save a refueling stop in the Azores on the regular trips to DCI in Geneva. One day the Gulfstream would stop over the Atlantic for good, and with any luck his father would be on board at the time. That way he'd be a president with full fiscal powers, able to get at DCI money to clear his debts with Hammid Aziz.

He flicked through his passport and visa, ready for immigration. Jason Becker Heinman. At least this trip to England had got him out of the States, away from Aziz and the unexpected demand for repayment. The deadline set by Aziz ran out today.

The aircraft wheels bumped on the wet tarmac with a succession of screeches. While his fellow travelers breathed a sigh of relief, even a silent prayer at a safe touchdown, Jason thought of the aggravation his father was giving him. The old man was up to something.

"ARE YOU getting out of the company at last?" Jason leaned back in the leather rear seat as the chauffeur swung the stretched Mercedes out of the airport approach towards the M4 and the center of London.

His father who had come to meet him sounded unexpectedly scornful. "And let you get your hands on company money? Not while I'm still alive. And it's about time you chopped that thing off the back of your head. Who the hell ever heard of a fifty-year-old president of a company wearing a pony tail? The damn thing's even going gray."

He stared at his father. Things had been tense for years, but he'd learnt to handle the relationship. Could his father know about his problem with Aziz? "Forty-nine-year-old president," he retorted.

The Mercedes accelerated past a filthy white van that had been hogging the overtaking lane in the pouring rain, oblivious to the chauffeur's flashing headlights. The van driver showed the derisory two fingers so typical of the British.

"So what do you want me to do?" Jason tried to conduct a rare, sensible conversation with his father. He put his favorite fawn baseball cap on his lap and ran his fingers through the strands of his pony tail. He hadn't realized it was going gray.

"There's something you have to know. I'll tell you at the hotel." His father lowered his voice so the driver would be unable to hear. "Something called the Berlitzan Project."

"Never heard of it."

"There's no one left in DCI who has. It belongs in the past."

"But not any more?"

"You've got it in one, Jason."

At the hotel he knew what to expect. His father's suite was luxurious, while he had the injured man's room near the top. Being company president counted for nothing.

"It was okay for Miller. No point in bothering the desk clerk," his father explained.

But he was having none of it. He stormed downstairs to discover that the hotel only had one executive suite, the one which his father had already taken. But he could have a choice of two decent sized rooms on the top floor. Superior rooms, the woman at the desk called them. He told the clerk to transfer his luggage to whichever room had the better view, and returned to his father.

He sat in his father's suite and looked around. It wasn't envy, but he felt angry that his father always seemed to come out on top in any business arrangement. The old fool was never going to hand over full power while he was alive. "So, DCI has troubles."

"Serious troubles, Jason. We're facing a major crisis."

"You mean with Miller in hospital."

"Hell no. CEOs seem to make a habit of crashing cars. I've learnt to live with that one."

"What's the problem then?"

"Business confidence. The financial world could desert us if news of the Berlitzan Project gets out -- just when we're ready to announce our cancer relief drug."

"You'd better tell me."

"We made a poison gas in the last war. Secretly, of course. We called it Berlitzan oil."

Jason shrugged. "So what? Many companies made poison gas. I can think of a few famous names in Germany straight off. It's not exactly done them any harm."

"It was a clever concept. Your grandfather got the idea from stink bombs. DCI was selling it to the Nazis."

His father had gone mad. "DCI was selling stink bombs to the Germans?"

"There's no need for sarcasm, Jason. Tell me, what makes a guy walk into a crowded shopping mall and let fly with a pump-action twelve gauge?"

Jason shrugged. "He's some sort of psycho?"

"Okay, then what makes a man go kill his family one night with an axe?"

"Stress?"

"You've got it, Jason. It's called a stress syndrome. In its mildest form, you get a guy behind you at the lights who keeps blasting his horn. Then everyone joins in. Or there's a violent argument in the line at the supermarket checkout. One person triggers a chain reaction. I bet you've seen it."

"Every day. I haven't a clue why it happens. What am I supposed to be, some sort of shrink? No doubt you have the answer?"

His father nodded. "DCI had the answer. Berlitzan oil was powerful stuff."

"You're one daydreaming son of a bitch, Father." Jason laughed in disbelief. "You're not going to tell me that every time a maniac takes a few pot shots in a public place, he's been popping some DCI pill."

"The accident at the Nazi missile site finished it. DCI could have been a world leader at the end of the war. Some of the Berlitzan oil is still buried near the town of Saint Somer in northern France. In small gold cylinders."

Jason jumped to his feet. "Not that Dutchman with the knife?"

"That's what I think. Hell, I don't know. Something happened with the Dutchman. It's been happening on this planet ever since there have been people. Push someone a little too far and they explode."

"What are you saying: all lunatics since the Stone Age have been getting a whiff of your Berlitzan stuff?"

"You don't need to be a stress counselor to know there's tension bubbling below the surface. A supermarket line. A traffic jam. Not in everyone of course. A dog barks all through the night, or a baby cries too long. The anger is already there, just waiting for someone to snap."

"Bit cynical, aren't you?" grinned Jason.

"Think what happens when a group's out drinking beers together. It's how riots start. Alcohol breaks down the natural inhibitions that hold us back from going crazy."

He considered his father's words. "And?"

"Give a hundred people a sniff of Berlitzan oil. Only two or three need be affected to cause mayhem. The rest get caught up in the anger."

"You smell it? Like pheromones?"

"Maybe the modern equivalent would be food additives. The wrong sort can work havoc in an allergic child. Imagine if that kid could ingest all those chemicals in one go. Hell, think what your mother used to be like with PMS." His father laughed uneasily at the memory. "Something unbalances the system, that's all I know."

"My grandfather was helping the Germans?"

"He got killed when he took me to France in forty-four. The Nazis were planning to launch two flying bombs that night, aimed at London, with six gold cylinders of Berlitzan oil in each."

"Would the cylinders break on impact?"

"The Germans were trying to perfect a device that would puncture the cylinders when the motor cut, and spray the contents just before the bomb exploded. Not easy with such a heavy impact."

"So what were you and grandfather doing in France?"

"We wanted to make sure the Germans didn't keep anything back for analysis. We were boarding a small plane to get out of France in a hurry, and I realized a French girl had stolen the samples. Then the shooting started. Scared the hell out of me. That's how I got these injuries to my arm and chin."

Jason had to laugh. "Not very patriotic wounds, were they? Anyway, what girl are you talking about?"

"I guess she'd be my age now. Miller read about her in the local paper. An old soldier has started talking about her in hospital. He was there, Jason. That old soldier was there. He killed my father. The whole thing sure jogged a memory. Sophie Bernay. A French name. The camp hostess." Out came the white handkerchief to wipe his sweating palms. "I wasn't even twenty-one. The whore hid the oil in the ground."

"And you think whenever some maniac goes berserk, they've found one of your gold cylinders?"

"Of course not. Some people are always ready to go over the top. That was the key to the Berlitzan Project. All we needed was a trigger. Berlitzan oil finished the job."

Jason turned himself sideways in the luxurious armchair. The idea hadn't gelled yet, but he could feel something coming. "If it's gone for good, why the panic?"

"The soldier's grandson is a PI, and he's ferreting out all he can. You have to help me, Jason."

"This is a busy time for DCI, what with the release programmed for the cancer drug. I've got TV interviews booked in the States. I don't have time to run around cleaning up your mess. I rely totally on Simon Urquet to sort out problems. After all, he's the company lawyer."

"Urquet's in Geneva right now. Anyway, the less people who know about this the better. That's why I need your help."

Jason stood up. The luxurious hotel armchair already felt uncomfortable. "How am I meant to run the company without a CEO? It's your fault Miller's in hospital. I should be in New York right now, not racing round Europe like some blue-assed fly."

"You've got personal debts."

"What the hell business is it of yours?"

"You can't hide things like that. You should never have got involved with a man like Aziz."

"Aziz?"

"Hammid Aziz, the arms dealer. Remember, your sins will find you out, as the preacher used to say."

"They sure found you out, you old hypocrite. So what's the deal?"

"I pay Aziz off, and you sort this one out for me."

He turned to his father in mock disgust. "I hope you're not going to ask me to kill an old man now."

"Hell no, he's senile." His father twisted the handkerchief around his fingers. "I'm more worried about the French woman, Sophie Bernay. I want you to go to France and find out if she remembers anything about me. You can do what Miller did and say you're a reporter."

"Miller's got two broken legs."

"Then be careful."

"You sure it was an accident with Miller?"

"Hell, boy, I don't know." His father sounded angry. "Seems he never made a bend in the highway."

"Maybe the problem will go away if we keep quiet."

"I'm worried about the press, Jason."

"Let me get back to the States. I've got contacts in the U.S. media. I can keep the lid on this one."

"It's the foreign press who'll blow the lid for us."

He nodded. His father had a valid point. "How about I visit the grandson and ask him straight out for Sophie Bernay's address?"

"Miller tried it at the place where Rider works. Hardly got inside the office door. The English are a cold lot. They'll not welcome anyone from the next street, let alone our side of the Atlantic."

"Do you know where the young PI lives?"

"Miller got his home address from the voting records in town, but I don't want Rider finding out we're in England. He might go stirring things up even more."

*

MATT MADE sure his camera was tucked safely out sight under the passenger seat of the Mini, and walked into the street outside Ken's office to wait for Zoé. As well as meeting Sophie in France, he wanted to explore the old launch site where the Dutchman had dug up the ring. There might be something there to photograph and tell his grandfather about.

The sun shone through Zoé's thin dress as she walked towards him, down the street this time, instead of up. The low cut dress hugged her body -- small dark flowers on a mid blue background today. Amazing. Had she worked out about the sun and chosen the direction for maximum impact?

The kiss was brief. She seemed to be holding back. He found it hard to read Zoé's intentions, but perhaps he was behaving the same way himself. Part of him sensed that this could be the relationship he'd always wanted, and the potential of it scared him. Zoé still hadn't found any nursing work in England, and he wondered if she was even intending to find a job over here. She gave the impression of wanting to escape from something. He hoped it was from Florian.

"I've booked the cross-channel ferry from Dover, and a hotel near Calais for tomorrow," he told her.

"Separate rooms?"

He nodded. That had been her idea, not his. "I'll pick you up from the hostel at ten."

"I will be ready. You look anxious, mon ami. You are worried about your grandfather?"

"Granddad's okay. I just wish Ken hadn't told Miller I'm off to France."

"You must not blame yourself."

"I should never have written to America using my own name. I wouldn't have done anything so careless for a client."

"You did it for your grandfather."

"I did it for me." He kicked a stone along the road. "The Heinmans are a powerful family, but I can't see them following us to France."

Zoé shook her head. "See, you are not being careful. You have to assume the most evil will take place."

"Assume the worst, because it may happen?"

"Exactement. But maybe we can do nothing to stop it."

"You're a fatalist." He didn't mean it to sound like an accusation.

"I most certainly am not." Zoé sounded shocked. "If we stay in England, the evil may happen in France. And if we go to France, it may happen here. Anyone can get it right with ... what is the word?"

"Hindsight?" he suggested.

"Yes, hindsight. Is that fatalism?"

Matt kicked the stone again "Of course it's not. It means the worst never happens when you're ready for it. Fancy a Chinese takeaway in the park?"

*

JASON WENT DOWN to the bar and found his father sitting alone.

He turned as Jason came through the door, his fingertips together, studying them closely. "Sophie Bernay. Yeah, that was her name all right. I've booked your trip with my American Express. You're getting an early Eurostar train through the Channel Tunnel to Calais in the morning."

"And what about you?" Jason demanded.

"I'm going to get the old padre to call on Alec Rider."

Jason felt angry. "I've had enough of this garbage."

His father looked deathly pale. "Leave your staff to look after things in New York, boy. I need you on this Berlitzan business one hundred percent."

The crisis had brought out an unexpected aggression in the old man. "I'm not interested in covering up for you," Jason snapped. "Admit what you did in the war was wrong, put DCI in the clear, and just disappear. I sometimes wish you were dead."

"Find Sophie for me. That's all I'm asking."

"And how do I do that? You have her address?"

"Ask at the town halls in the area. Tell them you want to pay a surprise visit on a wartime girlfriend of your father's. Just make sure you get there ahead of Rider."

"And pay her off?"

"Move her somewhere safe and wait for me. I've got urgent business to attend to back here."

He stared at his father. How was the fool going to find an old Canadian padre? Well, finding some elderly French hooker called Sophie would be just as difficult.

A woman called across from reception. "Is there a Mr. Becker here? Telephone call for Mr. Becker."

Jason tensed as he walked to the phone at the desk, aware that he was being watched by several guests at the bar. Only one man used his middle name. "Yes?"

"Becker, this is your favorite arms dealer and money lender." Hammid Aziz roared with laughter.

Jason tried to remain calm when he heard the voice. "What do you want, Hammid?"

"Today is the day you pay me, Becker."

The tone of voice sounded calm, almost self-amused, but Jason had known Hammid Aziz for many years. He recognized the danger the words concealed.

Aziz had already replaced the receiver.

As he put the phone back, Jason saw the solution in a flash. He had a chemist friend who had once dealt with arms. The phone number was in his room. The single elevator was always slow. He ran up the stairs, trying to forget the threat he had heard on the hotel phone. His breathing quickly became normal once he reached his room.

The number for his contact had a Washington code. He took his cell phone from his pocket. All he got was an answering machine saying that the office was closed for seven days. He'd leave a message.

"Jason Heinman here. Get back to me on my cell phone as soon as you can. There's something red hot in the wind, and it could help both of us."

He gave the number and ended his call. If this worked out he'd not only be in a position to cancel his debt with Aziz, he could make a personal fortune. He'd not meant to say anything amusing.

Something red hot in the wind.

He smiled.

A strong smell of Berlitzan oil bringing anger and death.

And then it struck him.

How did Aziz know he was in England? And how the hell did he know which hotel?

Chapter 13

"WELL, WELL, it's you, Becker. Not running away, I hope." The man stepped forward to block the hotel doorway.

"Carlo!" Jason stopped in astonishment. "I was just going out to take a walk round the hotel grounds." He tried to sound relaxed. It was not possible for Carlo to be here in England.

Carlo shook his head. "Mr. Aziz wants to know more about the offer you make your friend in Washington a few minutes ago. Come and meet him in the car park."

Jason pushed the South American lackey aside. "Don't be a fool, Carlo. Aziz has just been talking to me on the phone. He's in America..."

Across the hotel car park a large black limo sat under a tree, the interior light revealing a figure in the rear seat.

Carlo smiled, showing a row of uneven brown teeth. "It's the age of the car phone, Becker. Mr. Aziz thought he'd check up on you." He pulled Jason by the arm. "Mr. Aziz is a little short of time."

"How did you track me here?"

"He knows you're here, Becker, like he knows you're going to France."

Jason felt annoyed that he was being taken for a fool. No way could Aziz be in touch with every hotel in the world.

"Half a million bucks is a lot of money, even to Mr. Aziz," responded Carlo. "A little insect has followed you all the way from the States."

"A bug? I've been bugged?" He started feeling in his pockets.

Carlo showed a wide grin of brown teeth. "Not you, Becker. Your luggage. Mr. Aziz is clever with electronic gizmos. Okay, you come now."

Jason lowered his voice. "I'm using my usual name here -- Heinman. I only use Becker for personal business. My great grandfather had it as his middle name."

Carlo shrugged his thin shoulders. "You use whatever name you want, Becker. I've come to take you to Mr. Aziz."

A light drizzle blew across the car park, and Jason realized his baseball cap was in his room. A smell of damp earth filled the air but the ground looked dry under the shelter of the large yew tree where the car was parked. The tinted rear window was lowered just enough for conversation.

Jason moved cautiously, his feet crunching loudly on the gravel. The occupant of the limo was now sitting in darkness. It could be some sort of stupid trick.

"Get in, Becker," the man inside the limo said abruptly.

He recognized the Middle Eastern voice immediately. "Hello, Hammid."

"Get in the car."

Jason sat on the far side of the wide rear seat to face Hammid Aziz, and opened the window slightly. "I think it's time we stopped playing games, Hammid. How about we negotiate?"

Aziz stayed silent, probably puzzled by being spoken to so sharply. Large drops of water crashed onto the roof as a light breeze stirred the branches of the yew. Surely the man's English included the word negotiate.

The arms broker spoke at last. "How you mean, Becker?"

"We do a deal."

"Ah, a deal." Aziz nodded thoughtfully. "I hear the message you leave on your friend's phone in Washington. I know your father book a trip for you to France tomorrow, so I ask myself what it is you have to offer. Me, I like to listen to phone calls. It help me with my English. See, I go out and buy all this ... what you say? ... this electronics."

Aziz pointed to a complex instrument panel let into the walnut fascia that would normally have held the cocktail cabinet. The instrument dials and display screen glowed green. "I listen to your phone, Becker. To your father's phone. To everyone's phone." He slapped the seat. "No deals. You pay me now."

"No, I don't pay you now, so let's get that understood."

Aziz shrugged his padded shoulders, and the loose-fitting jacket rose with sufficient expression to make it clear that pleading would be pointless.

This called for direct confrontation. "I think my father's done a deal with you."

"Oh yes, he done a deal with me. Your father, he want your help to save DCI, so he ask me to get all over your back. He no tell me why."

"And he's offered you some oil?"

Aziz frowned. "What for this oil? For my car? My bicycle? No, Becker, your father not offer me any oil."

Jason kept his face close to the partly open window to get some much-needed air. "Listen, Hammid, we can help each other."

"Ah, the offer you tell your friend about on your cell phone. What you got, Becker?" Aziz sounded intrigued.

"Something better than money." Jason struggled to get on top of the situation. "Let's forget my friend in Washington. How about I sell it to you?"

"I want half million dollars in cash, Becker," said Hammid Aziz flatly. "That why I come here to get it back from you tonight."

"You're not listening, Hammid." He leaned towards Aziz. He needed to put this little man on the defensive. "We forget the loan and I sell you a special oil."

Aziz shook his head. "You need to give me an oil well to get me off your back, Becker." And he roared with laughter at the joke.

Carlo turned round from the driving seat and dutifully joined in with a broad grin of bad teeth.

Jason ignored the insolence. "I can get something that will put you right at the top of the world's arms dealers. But I need your help."

"Okay." Aziz stopped laughing. "What you want me to do?"

"I need a handgun and..." Jason pointed to the electronic control panel. "And a bug to track an Englishman's car." He looked at Aziz. "Like the one you've planted on me."

Aziz shook his head slowly. "That one use a satellite tracker. I no lend you that."

"Then I can't help you."

Aziz must have been interested. "Maybe I have a small radio tracker. The transmitter not work more than ten kilometers away, but it good. No one can escape from it, my friend, if you stay close."

Jason knew where Matt Rider was going. Ten kilometers; about seven miles. That should be enough range to make sure the English PI wasn't following him around the Calais area. "I need it tonight."

Aziz nodded slowly. "Carlo?"

Carlo turned with his usual grin. "It's in the trunk, Mr. Aziz."

"You've got it all here?" asked Jason. "A handgun as well?"

"Perhaps, Becker, perhaps. First you tell me more about this oil."

"Sure." He made a mental note to go through every item in his bags for a transmitter, so Aziz wouldn't turn up in France. Then he slid across the seat until he was close to the arms dealer. "Let me tell you about the crazed gunman running through the shopping precinct, about the mad axe man in the schoolyard. Tell me, Hammid my old friend, do you understand the meaning of the word 'frenzy'?"

*

JASON thought that finding where Matt rider went in France would be easy, as long as the PI took his car. At least Milton Miller had done something useful by getting Rider's home address from the electoral role -- before ending up in the local hospital. Miller even knew what car Rider drove. Jason took a taxi to a street a couple of blocks away. He'd be less conspicuous walking from there. An orange Mini was parked right outside Rider's place under a streetlight.

The magnetic bug from Aziz was small enough to slip under a rear wheel arch. The Englishman would be a pushover. He switched on the unit and reached under the car. The tracker grabbed onto the metal with a reassuring snap.

He recalled the words of Aziz. No one can escape from it, my friend.

Tomorrow he'd be in France. All he had to do was check that Matt Rider's car was nowhere near, and find Sophie Bernay. He could let his father know where to contact her, then fly back to New York and get on with the serious business of running DCI.

*

THE NEXT morning, Matt drove onto the ferry at Dover. He was conscious that this trip might come up with an unwelcome result. If he'd got things back to front and DCI was innocent, and Sophie decided to accuse his grandfather of a wartime murder, no one in his family was going to thank him.

Even Miller's visit to Ken Habgood might be innocent. Miller had been in shock on the stretcher after the accident, and would probably have nodded his head to anything. But why had Miller come all the way from America to call on Ken?

The attendant waved Matt into a narrow parking slot in the bowels of the ferry, just wide enough for a Mini. He left the car in gear and pulled the handbrake on hard. Miller was out of harm's way now, and the Heinmans wouldn't know where to find him in the Pas-de-Calais.

He went up to the passenger lounge with Zoé, still feeling uneasy.

France \-- Pas-de-Calais

JASON YAWNED. Last night had been a late one, slipping the tracker under Rider's car, followed by an early rise to catch the Eurostar this morning.

He took a taxi from the railway station at Calais, dropped his cases off at the hotel, and asked to be taken for a drive in the countryside. After half an hour he saw a small garage with a car rental sign, paid the driver, and went inside. He quickly discovered that his rudimentary French, learnt in Canada, was hopeless when it came to fixing things like renting a motor vehicle.

He eventually came away with a white Citroen, a manual shift model, and drove to the local town hall. His trip to France was perfectly legal, but something told him to be wary of advertising his presence. Even renting the car out of town was not without a certain risk. Maybe his baseball cap would provide anonymity.

He decided to phone Aziz. This time he'd use a public call booth. Last night Aziz had proved that his cell phone wasn't secure. The bug had been easy to find, a small device stitched into the back pocket of his case. Carlo had a damn cheek, opening the case somewhere between DCI headquarters and JFK, but he'd turned the tables on Aziz last night by dropping the bug into the carry-on case of a Swedish tourist at the hotel who was flying home in the early hours. It should have given Aziz and Carlo a worrying start to the morning.

He pressed the handset against his left ear, trying to blot out the sound of traffic racing along the busy highway. He'd taken one hell of a chance in offering Hammid Aziz goods he didn't have -- goods he might not even be able to get.

"Where are you. Becker? Are you in Sweden?" Aziz demanded.

"France." He had no intention of explaining. "Is there a problem?"

"No problem, Becker. You a very smart man, I think."

"So do we have a deal?" It was hard not to laugh.

"What you tell me about poison gas last night, it interest me. Listen, Becker, I no tell your father what we do, but I ask questions. I find out about DCI in the war. You right, I think your father and grandfather help the Germans."

"I already know that." He must hold back from outright rudeness.

"One thing it bother me, Becker."

Aziz's voice sounded faint. Jason shifted his position in the noisy phone booth, trying to find the place that gave the best sound deadening. "You'll have to speak louder, Hammid."

"Why the Nazis wait so long for Domestic Chemicals to make the oil?" Aziz shouted. "Why they no copy it and make their own?"

Jason moved the phone away from his ear. "I don't know." He turned to see a young woman with a phone card in her hand approaching the booth. She stood impatiently outside.

"Why the Nazis no make their own oil?" Aziz repeated.

"They probably didn't know how to make it, Hammid." He pulled his baseball cap lower and turned to face away from the woman. "It was a DCI secret."

Damn the woman. She might speak good English -- which was more than Aziz could.

"The Nazis, they had their own chemists, Becker. If they had samples, why they no animalize them?"

"Analyze."

"What you say?"

"Analyze. Why didn't they analyze them?"

"Yes, that what I ask, too, Becker."

"I have to go, Hammid." He was quickly losing patience. "I'm supposed to find a geriatric French whore and a young PI -- all at the same time. And they're not going to be together, unless the young Englishman is totally degenerate."

"What that? Degenerate?"

"Okay, we have a deal. Goodbye, Hammid. I'll keep in touch." He shook his head and replaced the phone.

He gave the waiting woman no more than a nod and walked to his rented Citroen. One gold cylinder was all he needed to persuade Aziz to take his fingers from his throat. He let the clutch in clumsily. The rental car lurched forward and the engine stalled. Why the hell did European cars have manual transmissions?

Aziz had asked a reasonable question. Okay, so his father reckoned the formula was difficult to copy, but surely the Nazis would have given the early samples to AG Farben to develop.

He got the engine restarted and turned towards Calais. The tracker on loan from Aziz beeped loudly, making him jump. He waited. Three minutes later it beeped twice. He rotated the receiver to give an indication of the direction, then put his foot down and drove towards it. He needed to be sure that it was Rider's car.

For some reason the Germans had stayed in touch with DCI by the back door until 1944, almost through the whole war. The answer probably lay in the complexity of the formula. Perhaps Berlitzan oil was some mix of hormones that no one knew how to replicate. Were hormones properly understood in those days? He shrugged. Anyway it might not have been hormones; it didn't really matter. Chemical analysis was in the dark ages in the war.

The highway narrowed and he had to shift down a gear. The car juddered as he pushed the stick into fifth by mistake.

Three beeps from the tracker now. The signal was coming from the south east.

Four beeps indicated he was closing on it fast.

He drove warily through the rain, past the typically French houses lining the highway, their green shutters wide today like eyes watching his every move.

Five clear beeps meant he should be near enough for a visual.

As he slowed for a cyclist he saw the shabby orange Mini parked outside a small hotel and bar. He stopped to check the license plate.

Aziz was right; no one could escape from one of these bugs. And now he knew where the English PI was staying. Maybe the man would lead him to Sophie.

Pas-de-Calais, that afternoon

ZOÉ SAID she felt exhausted, pointing out that the Mini wasn't exactly designed for trans-continental travel. Clearly she intended to stick to her original agreement about separate rooms, and was very firm as she closed the door when she decided to take a shower.

Matt went to his own room, the adjoining one but without an interconnecting door. He settled back to listen to a tape on his headphones. It was all Florian's fault. Something French by Berlioz would fit his mood. The March to the Scaffold perhaps.

He switched the player off after ten minutes and went out onto the small balcony. It was impossible to imagine the appalling fighting that had taken place on these undulating fields and woods: twice, in the last century. Tanks. Trench warfare. Shelling. He sat on a white plastic chair and opened the book he was halfway through. It was a whodunit, but whoever did it didn't really interest him this afternoon.

He unfolded the map he'd bought at the local presse, and tried unsuccessfully to find the exact place where the Dutchman had found the ring. Maybe he could go out and start looking for it. He'd rather be driving around than stuck indoors. When they went to see Sophie tomorrow morning he wanted to be familiar with the area.

He'd bought a car magazine on the ferry, but Zoé had it in a bag in her room next door. It would make a good excuse for disturbing her. He not only felt restless, he felt hungry. They could go down the road and find a bar serving coffee and French pastries.

Zoé's balcony door was open, but he couldn't see into her room without leaning out and risking his life. Anyway, he didn't want to be seen as a voyeur. He was about to call through the wooden dividing slats without looking, surely the act of a gentleman when a lady might still be taking a shower, when he heard Zoé speaking. She must be on the phone.

"No, Florian. No, no, no." she said in French.

Zoé went silent. Presumably Florian was managing to get a word in.

"I hoped you would understand," she continued. "Can you not guess how I feel?"

Matt moved back into his room. As a PI he'd listened in to many phone calls without the caller being aware of the intercept. But this was different. This was Zoé having a personal conversation.

He was tempted. Surely no harm could come from listening. He might get a clue as to how she felt about Florian. No, it would be like cheating. Zoé had made it clear that she was helping on a temporary basis. If he wanted Zoé he had to win her in a straight fight, not by listening at windows.

Can you not guess how I feel? He lay on the bed wondering what Zoé meant. Florian might be able to guess, but he couldn't.

England, that evening

"EXCUSE ME, Sister, I'm here to see one of your patients. I guess maybe you're in charge?"

Marjorie Ewing stared at the large, elderly visitor who had turned up unexpectedly. One of the nurses had told her that an old American priest was in the hall.

"Visiting hours are over, I'm afraid," she said curtly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Sure thing, ma'am." The man with a long drooping moustache smiled. "The Rider family has tracked me down. Well, to be accurate, ma'am, one of their friends did it on their behalf."

"I'm not sure I..." Marjorie Ewing wasn't normally lost for words, but a deep scar on the man's chin distracted her. A very old scar that had healed badly. No one would be allowed home from hospital nowadays with a disfigurement like that.

"So sorry, ma'am." The visitor held out a large hand. "I've not introduced myself. The name is Hawkins. The Reverend Fergus Hawkins. I'm Canadian. Sure, you will have guessed that from my accent."

Marjorie Ewing smiled a professional smile. "You've come about a spiritual matter I expect."

"Sure have, ma'am. Do you have a patient here called Mr. Alec Rider?"

"But..."

"Why, I knew you did. Do you think I could meet the old fellow?"

She hesitated. "He may be asleep."

"If I could just sit by his side."

Sister Ewing collected her wits at last. It was not often that elderly Canadians turned up at the hospital at nine-thirty at night, demanding to see a patient. Hospital chaplains were normally more considerate. "My name is Marjorie Ewing. I'm the sister in charge. We have regular visiting hours. It's so much easier..."

"Why, ma'am, you surely wouldn't deprive one of your patients of some spiritual nourishment."

"I suppose not." She realized she was being taken off guard by a man with considerable skill in dealing with people. "However, the specialist..."

"Of course you're right to be worried, ma'am. Especially if you're keeping the patient heavily sedated. I believe you do that in England. Perhaps I can make an appointment for tomorrow morning."

Her professional principles were being threatened. "Mr. Rider has not been sedated. He's on prescribed drugs, and at the moment his mind is improving. You know him?"

"A long time ago, ma'am. In the war. He confided in me after his..." The man hesitated. "I was his padre. Let me just say that he once had a problem and I helped him. Apparently he's been asking for me."

She broke out into a broad smile. "How silly of me; you were his chaplain. Mr. Rider's grandson, Matt, has been trying to find out exactly what happened to his grandfather in France."

"I heard something about that," replied the visitor coldly. Then he smiled. "A good grandson by the sound of it. Does the old fellow remember much about the war?"

"I think so, sir." Marjorie Ewing decided that a man of the cloth deserved some respect, especially if he'd come all the way from Canada. "There was a young woman he met in France in the war. He thinks he ... well, he thinks he hurt her."

"Very tragic, ma'am. Has Alec Rider talked a lot since he came here?"

"I can't rightly think..."

"Has he said anything about German rockets?"

"German rockets? Why German rockets?"

"It was all part of his past. All part of his problem." The Canadian visitor knew how to turn on the charm. "I realize it's late, Sister, but if there's any chance of me looking in on the patient I would treat it as a great honor. The man was a war hero, you know."

"So his grandson says, sir. I'll take you up to his room, but we really shouldn't disturb him."

The door to the room was secured from the outside. All the patients had to be out of harm's way at night. She opened the door cautiously to reveal a steel-framed hospital bed. Alec Rider lay there awake. She knew from the excited look in the patient's eyes that the latest memory-assisting drug had caused this hyperactive state.

"I think I'll get a little something to help him sleep," she said, going to a locked cupboard on the wall.

"Not just now, ma'am. I'd love a few words with my old friend first." The man motioned towards the door as though he wished to be left alone.

But Marjorie Ewing was not going to concede too much ground. "Don't worry, Padre, it will take twenty or thirty minutes to make him drowsy. You'll not be wanting to stay too late I'm sure. Not with all the other visitors long gone."

"Quite right, ma'am. I only need a few minutes alone."

"I'm sorry, the hospital rules say I have to stay."

"Oh, ma'am, I'm sure you can make an exception this time. I promise to call for help if there's a problem." He pointed to the red emergency button. "I do a lot of hospital visiting."

"Perhaps ... yes, I think I can trust you both to behave yourselves." She forced a laugh and pulled Alec Rider forward to slip an extra pillow behind his back. Then she watched while he put the small white tablet in his mouth and drank the water. Satisfied that her patient was being properly cared for, she left the room.

"Alec Rider, I wonder if you remember me. I'm your padre. I want to talk about your accident in France."

The old man in the bed nodded. "Padre? I can't see you properly against the light. There's a chair over there. Bring it to the bed."

"I won't stay long. Sister will be back soon. Damn!"

The chair slid from his hand and tipped noisily onto its side on the polished floor. He looked round anxiously but the Sister had gone.

"It's this wretched right arm of mine," he explained. "A wartime injury, just like yours." He bent down and picked up the plastic stacking chair, then dragged it close to the bed.

The old soldier showed a faint sign of recognition on his face. "Are you really Fergus Hawkins?" he asked in a voice that seemed to hold fear. He reached out for the red bell push.

The visitor caught his arm in a powerful left hand grip. "My, that's a mighty interesting looking gold ring you have there, my friend. Too tight to get off, so I read in the paper. No, don't try to get up. Do you remember me, Captain Rider? We met a long time ago. In France. On a Nazi missile site."

Chapter 14

"I'LL BE OFF now, Sister. It's nearly ten o'clock and the old soldier has fallen asleep." The large man smiled reassuringly. "I've locked the door to his room."

"Thank you, Padre." Marjorie Ewing returned the smile but felt distrustful. "I'll just pop back upstairs and check he's all right."

"Oh, he's all right, ma'am. Sleeping like a baby. So glad of the opportunity to look him up again."

"Come up with me, Padre. I insist. There's something in Mr. Rider's room you should see."

"It's kinda late now, Sister ma'am. Perhaps it will keep until I come back another time?"

"I want you to come now." Marjorie Ewing was insistent. Insistence was part of her training; almost a qualification for the post. "You'll be glad you spared the time."

"Sure thing, ma'am. I just didn't want to disturb the old fellow again, that's all. But you lead right on."

The door was secured on the outside, just as the visitor had said. She opened it to reveal Alec Rider lying in bed, his mouth open, his eyes staring at the ceiling.

"It's Sister Ewing and your old padre." She made her voice sound reassuring, although the patient remained silent. She beckoned to her visitor. "This is what I wanted you to see. It's a photograph of you and Mr. Rider, taken in the war."

"Why, bless me, ma'am." The visitor held it to the light. "Well, it sure is some padre or other, but it's not me. The hair is quite different. And he's certainly not as tall as me." He laughed loudly.

"I'm sure I don't know." The negative response surprised her. "He said it was his old army chaplain. I think he's still awake. Let's ask him about it."

The big man shook his head. "Seems a shame to disturb him now."

Alec Rider half raised his head and murmured something indistinct about Fergus Hawkins. The words sounded slurred and were impossible to understand. The tablet had already taken effect.

"Perhaps in the morning, ma'am?"

She nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll hang it back on the wall. I wonder who it is."

"He moved about a lot in the army," said the visitor with a smile. "That will be one of his other padres."

"I expect you're right."

Marjorie Ewing locked the door as they went out.

*

NURSE OGDEN knew she'd be in trouble. She was late for work again, and fussy Sister Ewing was on night duty \-- probably standing in the entrance hall with a watch in her hand. Rosie Ogden knew she should have been ready for duty at ten, on the dot, and it was now just after midnight. Sister Ewing was very particular about her night staff being punctual. Stupid old bat. That woman didn't have two teenage sons to tend to, and she didn't have to make mortgage payments on the house that often exceeded the family income.

Rosie paused at the gates to the hospital grounds. With a bit of luck she could slip through the side door by the car park and pretend she'd been in the hospital for the past two hours. It was worth a try.

Her foot caught something soft, and images of a rat or some other hairy creature made her gasp. Human wounds and human blood were one thing; her spell in the theatre at the General had helped her to cope with human blood. Furry creatures were something else. Whatever this was, it was clearly dead. Warily she kicked the object into the glare from the car park security lights.

"Oh my God!"

The human hand had been neatly severed at the wrist, and the middle finger was missing. An object like this on the operating table was bearable -- lying out here on the damp tarmac the hand looked repulsive. She gave a startled scream, though no one came running.

The darkness seemed to close in. The grounds fell silent. Had someone dropped the hand after an operation? No, that would be impossible: the South Memorial Hospital hadn't done surgery since the local health authority turned it into a secure unit.

In her mind she had a sudden vision of the Black Puma roaming the countryside at night, making small furry creatures irrelevant. Her scream this time was longer and louder. Sister Ewing came running, and so did the other nurses.

*

"IT'S FROM someone old." Sister Ewing held the hand under the security light. "We'd better go in." She spoke to the nurse hovering anxiously by her side. "Nurse Alison, get the police. It looks as though one of our..."

"Yes, Sister?"

"He's been out of his room!"

"Who has, Sister?"

"Mr. Rider did this." It was obvious what had happened. "I never checked him again after the chaplain left. I expect he just acted drowsy. Probably never even took the tablet; just kept it under his tongue. That man is dangerous. Have any of you been into Mr. Rider's room in the past two hours?"

No one admitted to the offence.

"You do realize, don't you, that the man is a potential killer? My God, he got hold of a knife at Saint Monica's. Which one of you went to his room after the chaplain left?"

The staff stayed quiet. Rosie Ogden felt some relief that she'd come on duty late. "I've only just got here, Sister," she piped up.

"Well, don't just stand there, Nurse Rosie. Go up and see if Mr. Rider is back in his room."

"I'd like someone to come with me please, Sister."

The thought of the man wandering through the hospital with a knife struck fear into the small team of nurses.

Marjorie Ewing tried not to be drawn into the developing hysteria. "Have you contacted the police yet, Nurse Alison?"

The nurse nodded.

"Find Paul Jenkins for me, Nurse Rosie, and stop making those silly noises. The rest of you stay here."

At least one male nurse had to be on duty at all times. It was a requirement of the local health authority. There was no need to look for Paul Jenkins: the excitable voices in the reception area must have disturbed his extended break. The laundry room was normally a quiet area.

"Something the matter, Sister?"

"I want everyone to stay here until the police arrive." Marjorie Ewing fought the terror threatening to inundate her. "Except for you, Nurse Jenkins. Go upstairs with Rosie Ogden and see if Mr. Rider is back in his room."

"Why me, Sister?"

"Why you, Nurse Ogden? I'll tell you why. Because you came to work late. Don't argue."

"Pig!" Rosie Ogden said the words too quietly for Sister to hear. She turned to Paul Jenkins as they climbed the stairs. "I wish he'd started by chopping up Sister Ewing."

"You'd better keep close or you'll end up the same way." Paul's advice was chilling.

"Go on then, Paul, try the door."

The male nurse pressed down the door lever and pushed gently. The door was secure. "It's definitely locked, Sister!" His voice calling down the stairs broke the spell.

"Then open it and see if Mr. Rider is still in there, Nurse."

Paul Jenkins turned on the main light. He stared, but said nothing. Rosie Ogden peeped over his shoulder and shrieked.

Sister Ewing ran heavily up the stairs, followed closely by the small group of panicky nurses.

There was certainly someone in the bed. The heavily bloodstained bedclothes all but covered the occupant. Sister Ewing pulled the bedding back with a practiced skill, revealing the body in a sea of clotting blood. The right arm caught the edge of the sheet and jerked upwards. It fell back, hanging over the edge of the mattress, blood dripping from the stump below the wrist where the hand had been severed. Enough of the mutilated face remained to enable recognition.

Sister Ewing turned away and stared at the empty picture hook on the wall. It was of no consequence, but it needed saying. "Would you believe it; that old army photograph has gone."

France, the next morning

MATT WOKE early and decided to let Zoé stay asleep in her room on this their first full day. He went to the Mini before it was properly light, to drive around the area and absorb the atmosphere, trying to imagine what it would be like if his grandfather had been well enough to come on the trip and point out places first hand.

The countryside around here was more hilly than he remembered northern France being. The drive down towards Paris always seemed interminably level and boring. Up here there were undulating fields dotted with areas of woodland, as well as the expected areas of flat land. Maize seemed to be the main produce, with vast areas of the waving brown stems. Sweetcorn, his mother would call it.

He drove towards the coast, towards Strouanne between Wissant and Cap Blanc-Nez where his grandfather had made his wartime escape by MTB. Low clouds blew in from the sea, the wind whipping the tops off the gray waves as they raced up the long stretch of sand. He didn't bother to get out of the car; just sat and looked at the horizon.

Zoé was waiting in the reception area when he got back to the hotel just after nine. She broke the news of his grandfather's death gently.

Matt looked at his watch. Within a couple of hours they would have been talking to Sophie. So close to setting the record straight -- and now the shattering news from England that made their journey pointless.

He went to his room to phone his father. He missed his mobile phone at times like this. His father said the funeral couldn't take place for a week at least, according to the police. The CID at Trinity Green thought a fellow patient was to blame. There were some potentially violent cases at the South Memorial, but the hospital maintained they were all locked in their rooms when the police arrived.

A killer padre was a less likely theory the police were following up. An elderly army chaplain who'd visited earlier in the evening could have returned unseen. That was what Sister Ewing believed. Matt felt there might be some sense in that one, although chaplains weren't normally renowned for killing their flock. Granddad had often mentioned Fergus Hawkins, and the hospital visitor used the same name. The description was good. A tall man in his late seventies, with a large drooping moustache and an old scar on his chin. No one in the hospital had seen him before.

Matt said he'd come straight back but his father didn't seem bothered whether he did or not. Matt replaced the phone and went with Zoé to the dining room. She fetched him a warm croissant and a dark coffee from the serving table, and they sat together while he picked at his food, trying to come to terms with what had happened.

He sighed as he gave Zoé a hug. He needed to draw on her strength. She put her arms around him and they sat side by side at the table holding each other tightly. A brutal killing in a psychiatric hospital. It would be big news in England.

Through the dining room window Matt noticed a man sitting in a white Citroen on the opposite side of the street. The man was tall, but certainly not in his seventies. He checked himself. If he wasn't careful he'd be seeing bogey men everywhere.

The car had been there when he got back from his drive. The driver had a neat pointed beard and was wearing a fawn baseball cap. Hanging out through the back of the cap was a pony tail. He might be an innocent businessman waiting for a guest to emerge, but he'd waited a long time without jumping out of the car to hurry anyone up. Okay, so it might be a paranoid reaction, but this needed investigating.

Matt finished his coffee and told Zoé to come with him for a short walk. He held her hand as they left the hotel. The hand felt cold. Perhaps it was the shock. They walked across the road, making sure they passed behind the white car. Matt glanced sideways and read the sticker in the Citroen's rear window. It was an advert for a car rental garage. Le Garage de Saint Somer. He led Zoé towards a small food store, an alimentation selling fresh fruit and vegetables on a table outside, as well as a range of general groceries in the gloomy interior.

"I think I'll stay on," he told Zoé. "Granddad's funeral won't be for a week; probably longer. There will have to be police inquiries and an inquest before the body can be released. My father says there's nothing I can do to help over there. I don't think he wants me back. Will you stay here with me for a few days? I'll look after the hotel bill with my credit card." He was going to add that Ken would have to give him a pay rise if he was to pay it off, but it seemed the wrong thing to say.

Zoé picked up two large peaches from the outside table. "Madame Boissant is expecting us, so we will go to see her now. It can be a sort of pilgrimage."

"That's good." He squeezed his arm around her shoulder, but this time Zoé pulled away and went inside to pay. He noticed she hadn't responded to his invitation to stay.

Madame Boissant. Sophie. All the time he had to fight off the impossible picture in his mind of an eternally young woman with bouncy, blonde hair -- and a disfigured face. "Poor old Granddad. He died still believing he killed her. I'm going to phone my father and tell him I won't be back yet."

She handed him a peach. "And I will phone Florian to tell him I am staying for a little while longer. I think we should also find the site by the supermarket. As a mark of respect for your grandfather."

He nodded. Zoé seemed sensitive to his needs, as well as Florian's. "Thanks."

He went to his room to use the phone again and eat his peach. His father seemed quite happy for him to stay, as long as he kept in touch by phone from time to time. It seemed a reasonable request. Maybe he could learn to get on with his father when the funeral was over.

He collected Zoé from her room and went down to the Mini. "I want to see if the man in the Citroen follows," he told her.

"What do you think it will be, Matt? Monsieur 'Einman?"

"I've no idea, but I intend to find out who it is."

"And how will you do that?"

"We'll go to the Garage de Saint Somer after we've seen Sophie, and ask who hired that Citroen."

Zoé nodded appreciatively, although to Matt it seemed a fairly obvious way to discover someone's identity. The Mini engine sounded healthy, especially when revved to the limit.

"You are, I think, getting to like this car," said Zoé as she fastened her seat belt.

"You're joking, of course." Matt pulled away noisily, making sure everyone around noticed their departure, especially the driver of the white car. He watched in the mirror and saw the Citroen pull out. "Let's go into Calais and lose him."

"Drive slowly on the bends," warned Zoé. "We do not want to find him in the trees."

It was probably a joke, but when Matt glanced across, Zoé looked worried. The large road roundabout on the outskirts of the town had a sign saying Centre Ville. He floored the accelerator as they left the roundabout and the old Mini leapt forward, weaving through the holiday traffic that was entering the town for some last minute shopping before crossing the Channel.

Horns tooted, especially when drivers noticed the British number plate. The little orange car had caught out the mix of French and British motorists, but they were not going to allow the white Citroen to take advantage of them as it pulled out and tried to follow. The gaps between the cars closed instantly. In the rear-view mirror Matt could see the Citroen on the wrong side of the street, facing a wall of oncoming vehicles -- with nowhere to go.

Jason Heinman braked hard and flicked the switch on the tracker. The receiver beeped four times. The Englishman was still close enough to follow. He didn't want to be seen again, so he'd wait a few minutes. Did Rider really think he could get away?

Chapter 15

MATT DREW the Mini into the side of the road and looked at the row of shuttered houses, every one of them huddled low as though trying to escape being seen. Shells and bombs had devastated most of the area in the two World Wars, so perhaps these replacements were hoping to avoid the fate of their predecessors. A large hotel built of concrete and glass, one of a country-wide chain, was the only blot on the surroundings.

One of these shuttered houses was the home of Sophie Bernay, or Sophie Boissant as she was now. Matt was about to announce their arrival by using the large iron knocker when a voice called from indoors. "Ah, the Englishman is here. The grandson of the lovely Tommy. Entrez. Bonjour!"

Matt pushed at the unlatched door to lead the way through the small hall into the darkness of the living room. Would the occupant have some terrible mutilation to her face, caused long ago by his grandfather wielding a large knife? The curtains were wide, but the small window held back the dull gray morning. At least the room felt cheerful with a small coal fire crackling in the stone hearth. Matt would have been able to appreciate it better if the circumstances had been happier. A frail woman sat in a high-backed wooden chair, enveloped in a white lace shawl.

"Madame Boissant?"

"Enchanté!" The elderly woman was smiling and effervescent until she looked at Matt more closely. "You are upset, monsieur. There is a problem?"

Matt attempted a smile as the woman nodded her welcome. Her face looked lined but the skin showed no sign of disfigurement. "I am Matt Rider, and this is ... my ... my friend Zoé. Zoé is French." He wondered why he had introduced Zoé in such a hesitant way. "I have come to see you about my grandfather. I..."

He stopped. The meeting was pointless. He out held his hands, trying to get some warmth from the fire, chilled from the shock of the unexpected and brutal death. "Madame, my grandfather is dead. He died last night."

Sophie put her hand to her small mouth. "Oh, poor Tommy."

"Alec," corrected Matt. "His name was Alec."

"Tommy. Alec. He was Tommy to me." Her voice became interspersed with little sobs. "Often I have thought about ... my Tommy, and now ... now I am never to see him again."

"I am sorry." Matt could think of nothing sensible to say. The years since the war must have devastated the old woman's looks. It was impossible to see her as the blonde bombshell his grandfather had often talked about. "I think we had better go."

"I have kept your letters." The woman dabbed her eyes with a small hankie. "You write such good French, monsieur, and you speak it so well."

"Matt is good at languages," said Zoé. She said it with a certain pride.

"Ah, Matt. Is that an English name?"

"It is short for Matthew, Madame Boissant," he explained.

Sophie nodded her head thoughtfully. Her hair had become thin, but it looked freshly brushed, ready for this meeting. "Matthieu."

"My grandfather did not die naturally," Matt explained. "Someone in the hospital killed him."

"Some patient in the hospital?"

"Maybe." Matt shrugged. "He died a horrible death."

"Poor Tommy."

"Yes," agreed Matt. "Poor Tommy. I want to go to his funeral and say, 'I know where you went in France, Granddad. I know something of the terrible hurt that made you suffer for the rest of your life."

"It was terrible, monsieur." Sophie Boissant's eyes came alive with the memory. "We hid in the rushes. I nursed your grandfather in my arms for the whole night. When I kissed him, I got his blood on my face and in my mouth." She nodded her gray haired head. "Those two Americans became monsters. I could not bear to watch what they did."

The news came as a surprise to Matt. "Surely, it was my grandfather..."

"Tommy was drawn into those terrible events with the Americans, monsieur."

"Do you remember their name?"

"I ... I ... Perhaps ... tomorrow. Demain." She dabbed her eyes with a hankie. "Tommy ... dead. It is hard, monsieur." She began to sob.

Zoé stroked Sophie's wrinkled arm. "Do not distress yourself."

Matt felt embarrassed by the upset he'd caused. "Tell me, Madame," he said. "Is there a garage near here called Le Garage de Saint Somer?"

Sophie dried her eyes and frowned. "Le Garage de Saint Somer? It is eight or nine kilometers down this road, Matthieu."

Matt found Sophie's use of his name intriguing. He realized that by using the French version she was showing that she'd accepted him already. Granddad must have made one amazing impact in 1944, and Sophie's memory seemed to be unaffected by the tragic events. If she could remember the name of the Heinmans without prompting, he was halfway home to getting justice. The DCI rings should clinch it.

But then what? The local gendarmes were hardly going to be interested in a crime committed back in the war. Calling a press conference had seemed like a good idea but it was a non-starter. Sophie might have a good story to tell, but she was frail and would probably break down under a confrontation with a roomful of journalists. It could even finish her. He noticed fresh tears forming in Sophie's eyes and he began to cry himself.

Sophie Boissant got to her feet slowly and painfully. "You must excuse me, Matthieu," she said. "It is l'arthrite, the arthritis. It is the same with my sister Martha, but she is older than I am. Martha moved out of Calais during the war, when our parents were killed by the Eng ... By the bombing."

Matt went to the small window to wipe his eyes and was relieved to see an empty road. The white Citroen was probably still stuck in Calais.

"My family have always said they tried to contact you. They couldn't have tried very hard."

"Ah, Matthieu, when the war ended I moved to Lille to get married. We had just the one son. My husband, Henri, was a fine man. He helped me forget the terrible thing I did in the war, but he was killed in a mining accident in nineteen seventy-three."

"I am sorry, Madame."

"So young," Sophie said, almost to herself. Then she brightened up. "My son married soon after, and he and his wife gave me a good home in Lille. It was only five years ago that I moved back here."

"I do not like to leave you after such a shock," said Zoé. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

"That is very thoughtful of you," said the old woman. "We have a new priest in the village. Father Alban. He is only young, but he has been able to offer me comfort. Me, I did not think such a young man would be suitable to be our priest, but I was wrong. I asked Father Alban to call to see me after I received your letter. All those memories. We had a long talk about so many things. All my life I was filled with shame and guilt, not just for what happened with your grandfather, Matthieu. I know now that I have forgiveness from Jesus Christ. I have not earned it. It is a gift, and I am no longer afraid of dying."

Zoé bent down and kissed Sophie. "Please do not upset yourself about the death of Monsieur Rider, Madame."

Sophie gasped and put her handkerchief to her mouth. "I need time to take it all in," she said with a forced smile. "I would like to be on my own." She came with them to the door. Once she was walking she seemed to become more agile.

Matt bent forward and gave Sophie a kiss as they stood in the doorway. "Madame, I do not know what to say. My grandfather would have loved to see you again." He reached into his pocket and removed the crucifix his grandfather had brought back from France. "I think this is yours. Please take it."

Sophie clutched it and kissed the figure of Christ on the cross.

"Merci," was all she could say.

Zoé caught hold of Matt's arm. "There is the white Citroen outside the gate."

He heard a car driving away as he turned. "Are you sure?"

"The driver was watching us. I think he had a little beard."

Matt ran to the gate but the street was empty. He shrugged. He wasn't the only one with a wild imagination.

Zoé was getting paranoid now.

*

THE MAN at the Garage de Saint Somer stubbed his cigarette on the top of the counter, leaving a brown scorch amongst a hundred similar marks.

"Ah yes, monsieur, the big American with the pony tail." He opened a folder of rental forms. "I have his name here. It was on his driving license and his passport. We have to check these things you know."

"Hiring a car is a cheap way of getting one to keep."

The Frenchman laughed. "You are right, monsieur. I have lost two cars that way already, and I have only been in business six years."

"And the man's name?"

"I have it here, monsieur. See? It is the name of 'Einman."

Matt looked at the form. The full name was Jason Becker Heinman. According to Ingrid Rosestein of NATA, Jason B. Heinman was the new president of DCI. He regretted not going to see Louise sooner. The visit had been almost painless, and she might have been able to get him a whole folder on DCI -- and done it in confidence.

"How long has he booked the car for, monsieur?"

"Two days." The garage proprietor shrugged. "Perhaps he will have it for longer. He told me he is not sure. Monsieur 'Einman's French is very bad, but I believe he said his father is joining him here today."

Matt experienced a mixed sensation of excitement and alarm. Miller from DCI he could cope with, but finding the DCI president over here was scary. And all the time he was unable to keep his eyes off Zoé who had wandered into the workshop to talk to a young mechanic. The man had his hair spiked up in an amazing advertisement for the versatility of gel. He felt a stupid, childish jealousy as he watched them laughing together.

"Thank you, monsieur." He guessed it wouldn't do to push his luck any further. So far the proprietor hadn't asked why he was asking these questions. Time to change the subject. "Do you know where the madman attacked the crowd with his knife?"

"The Dutchman. The crazy, damned Dutchman with the big blade. It was incroyable, monsieur. Incroyable."

"You were there?"

The garage proprietor lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply before replying. "Not me, monsieur, but my cousin was in the fight. He is not a mild man, but he is not a killer, monsieur."

"I do not understand."

"Captain Lacoste and his brainless gendarmes are holding my cousin on a charge of murder." The man blew out a cloud of blue smoke. "I tell you, monsieur, it was that damned Dutchman."

"We didn't hear much about it in England," said Matt, willing the garage man into telling the story from a local perspective. In the workshop Zoé was still laughing. Didn't the mechanic have any work to do?

"Show me your map."

Matt unfolded the map he'd bought yesterday.

"There, monsieur." The man picked up his ballpoint. Without asking he drew a ring around an area of green on the map. "Some people are saying that the crowd joined in and started to kill each other. I ask you, monsieur, is that possible? Non, c'est impossible!"

Matt nodded. "I am sure you are right, monsieur," he agreed, his mind more on Zoé than the proprietor. "The gendarmes are over-efficient."

The Frenchman spat out through his office door into the yard, a fluid mixture of phlegm and tobacco. "There, that is what I think of Lacoste and his men. My cousin is innocent!"

"Of course," agreed Matt. "I am thinking of going to the site. Just to see it."

Zoé seemed to be exchanging names and addresses.

"If you go to the place I have marked, you will discover the site near the new supermarket. There is a high wire ... Ah, regardez. Monsieur 'Einman is coming. I recognize my white Citroen."

"No, no," Matt said quickly. He'd left the orange Mini at the side of the building where it was unlikely to be noticed. "It is most important you do not let Monsieur Heinman know I am here."

"You are with the police?" The Frenchman had begun to fill in some paperwork. He paused with his stylo in mid air.

"No, I am here on holiday, but I am keeping..." For a moment he was stuck for a word. "An eye on him for a friend."

"He is in trouble, monsieur?" There was uneasiness in the garage proprietor's voice.

"Big trouble, but it has nothing to do with cars. Your Citroen is safe with the American. May I go out through the workshop?"

"Of course, monsieur. The beautiful mademoiselle has seen you coming. Bonne chance!"

While the driver was parking the Citroen outside the office, Matt collected the "beautiful mademoiselle" and let the inner door to the workshop slam shut behind them. "You seemed to be getting on well in there," he said coldly. Perhaps for the first time he realized just how badly he wanted Zoé.

"You noticed?" Zoé giggled. "That was Philippe. He has made me a very good offer."

"It certainly looked like that," agreed Matt sulkily. The mechanic looked like a man who imagined he'd be able to have any woman he chose -- and probably could.

"I might take him up on it." Zoé seemed to be in a teasing mood, one he'd not seen before, but there was a fragile note to her humor. She got into the Mini and pulled the door shut.

It made a cheap, metallic sound. "He thinks this old wreck might let us down. His brother sells second-hand cars and he asked if I am interested in having a road test."

Matt refrained from adding anything obvious. Maybe he could use this as an opening to discover more about Florian. "I thought you had an understanding with someone in Clermont Ferrand."

Zoé nodded, the smile gone. "Florian's father is a good friend of my father."

"And Florian is your fiancé?"

"He sells cars. Mercedes cars. It is, I think, a good job."

Matt said he thought it was.

"I went to England," Zoé added. "To think things over."

He reached out.

"No, please do not touch me," she reacted suddenly. "You do not control me. I will do what I want." She turned away and stared out of the car window. "I feel so confused. I think I am ... infidèle, unfaithful. I should not be here with you."

Matt felt angry. "I hope you're not two-timing anyone. It's not fair on Florian -- whoever he is -- and it's not fair on me."

"You do not understand."

It was the sort of response a woman would resort to. "We're not sharing a room or anything," he told her, trying to make their friendship seem far more simple than he wanted it to be. The altercation came as a surprise. These were the first heated words they'd exchanged.

"I have my case at the hotel. I want you to take me back there now."

"And then?"

"Then I will catch the train home to the Auvergne."

The demand came as even more of a shock. "No. Please." Zoé's problems were her own business, but he wasn't going to let her go easily.

"Give me one good reason why I should stay," she demanded.

"Because France is a very big country."

"So?"

"So you might get lost on the way home."

Zoé looked at him, angrily at first, then she began to laugh when she noticed he was smiling.

Chapter 16

JASON HEINMAN had disappeared. Matt and Zoé decided to have a leisurely snack at a pavement table outside a bar on the road towards Calais, their orange Mini concealed in the car park round the back.

"It is your letter to New York that has caused all this trouble," Zoé told him. "I said you were not careful enough. Jason 'Einman has killed your grandfather and now he has come here to kill you."

Matt shook his head. "There's nothing to link Jason Heinman with my grandfather's death. The man claiming to be Fergus Hawkins was old."

"What about the father of Jason 'Einman? He must be old. What is his name?"

"Frank Heinman. The man at the garage said..." Matt put his glass of wine heavily on the table and red wine spilled over the side. "You're right, he's joining Jason here today."

"Where is he coming from? England?"

"I don't know. We need to find him, then we can see if he answers Sister Ewing's description. Where is he likely to be?"

"The German launch site?" asked Zoé who had been studying the map. "There is a circle marked on here."

"The man in the garage did it for me. Are you sure you want to go on with this?"

"I am still..."

"Tangled?"

"You must understand it is not a time that is easy for me."

It wasn't exactly an easy time for him, with his grandfather lying dead in an English hospital \-- the grandfather he'd come over here specially to help. He started the engine and wondered if Philippe at the garage was an old boyfriend from the Auvergne, a foolish thought that probably showed how infatuated he was becoming with Zoé. "I'd like to go past the garage once more."

"Pourquoi?"

"Jason Heinman could still be there, changing the car."

"Maybe you should hire a car," suggested Zoé. "A British orange Mini is, I think, a little noticeable in France."

"I'll hire something tomorrow." He was going to add, "When you've gone home," but it would be a mistake to test Zoé like this. Perhaps it was the wrong time of the month. Or more likely she'd had enough of him already.

They drove past the Garage de Saint Somer and found it closed for lunch, and probably for the afternoon as well by the deserted look of the place. Apart from three smashed cars in the forecourt, awaiting repair or dismantling for scrap, there were no other vehicles.

"If you will excuse me for saying this..." Zoé paused.

"Yes?"

"I think you are not being professional with this investigation. You must think what you would do if Ken 'Abgood had given you the work for a client."

"It's not work, it's family business."

"But you must still think what you are doing."

The criticism stung because it was true. "Let's find the launch site -- or go back to the hotel. You choose."

Zoé opted to return to the hotel, where she stayed in her room for the rest of the afternoon. Matt wondered a couple of times whether to go onto the balcony to find out if she was using the phone, but he lay on the bed and picked his way through his car magazine. Finally he threw it onto the floor and sat up. Zoé was right: it was time to take the initiative.

He had several options. The first was to pack it in, go home, and forget about the Heinmans and their dubious past. Let the British police sort out the murder. After all, his grandfather was dead, so he could do nothing to help him now. But his grandfather deserved a better memorial than that.

Another option was to tell the local gendarmes that he suspected one of the Heinmans had committed a murder in England. But without evidence they were unlikely to take his accusations seriously, unless the British police were involved. From past experience he knew that the French would take time to get their act together with the British, by which time the Heinmans would be safely back in America.

The best chance of putting the Heinmans behind bars was to get hold of a sample of their poison gas and take it to the press. The British and French papers would enjoy having a go at an American pharmaceutical company. Already he had a good wartime story to tell, even though it was second-hand from his grandfather. What he needed was something substantial to give the story credence.

A knock on the door made him jump.

"I thought we were going to visit the old German launch site." Zoé stood there with the map in her hand. If she'd been crying her eyes didn't show it -- they looked bright with excitement.

"If that's what you want." He refrained from expressing surprise.

*

MATT FOUND a parking space where they could look down onto an enclosed area of ground beyond the supermarket development. It could easily be the old wartime compound, because the beds of reeds in ancient drainage ditches made a natural boundary that had probably remained unchanged for several hundred years. The developers had encircled the whole area with rigid wire mesh about ten feet high, and topped it with three strands of heavy barbed wire. Floodlights looked down onto the churned earth from high gantries, and a portable cabin by the entrance gate served as a guard hut.

Matt noticed two yellow diggers parked inside the wire. Other than that, the site was deserted. It came as an anti-climax. What had he expected to find: a doodlebug ready for takeoff on a launch ramp?

"What is a flying bomb?" asked Zoé suddenly.

"The V1?" He smiled. "Granddad took me to see one in the Science Museum in London when I was a kid. He knew all the technical details. It was a small jet plane, full of high explosive."

"The Nazis had jet planes?"

"They had Messerschmitt jets by the end of the war. Bombers and fighters. They couldn't fly them because we kept bombing their fuel dumps. But flying bombs were pulse jets. Fuel exploded in the engine and shot out of the back, forty or fifty times a second. Granddad said they made a sort of buzzing sound, so everyone called them buzz bombs. People were panic stricken when they heard the engine cut. They knew the thing was about to crash."

"And the pilot got killed?"

Matt smiled, but gently. "There was no pilot. You put fuel in it, launched it in the right direction, and hoped it ran out of fuel over the target."

"Like a rocket?"

"Not really. People call them rockets nowadays, but they were definitely jets. Crude jets. They'd quickly shake a plane to bits, but at three hundred and fifty miles an hour the whole thing only had to hold together for a few minutes."

"And they were only used once?"

He looked at her in surprise. "They had a two thousand pound warhead. There weren't many bits left after they hit the ground."

"I wish I had brought my flute," said Zoé, changing the subject. "I keep thinking about your grandfather and Sophie meeting each other here as young people, and now your grandfather is dead. I feel like playing some sad music to cheer myself up."

"Sad music cheers you up?" Matt asked in surprise. Possibly he'd been a bit blunt with his answers to Zoé's questions. After all, he'd had the benefit of his grandfather's tales over the years.

"But of course it cheers me up. Perhaps the Pavane by Maurice Ravel." She put her hand on his leg, but ever so gently. It was certainly not a pass and he did nothing.

"I like French music," he said. It happened to be true, but Zoé might think he was making it up to score a few brownie points. It was no good pretending about things like this. Louise had pretended to be crazy about football, but she'd been found out when it poured with rain at their third match together.

He hummed the opening bars of Ravel's Pavane to prove he knew it, but it failed to sound anything like funeral music for a dead princess. "I didn't realize you played the flute." Maybe he added the last bit too quickly. Maybe he was rushing into things if he had no idea of Zoé's interests. But he had to start learning some time. "Do you play with an orchestra?"

"I help run a local one in the town. What is your favorite music, Matt?"

"Russian mostly. Shostakovich ... and French flute."

"When we get back to England we could go to a concert together. I would like that." Zoé said it almost absent-mindedly and probably hadn't thought what she was saying.

He decided to check out her commitment. "Aren't you going home to Florian?"

Zoé looked troubled. "Florian is not pleased that I have left Clermont Ferrand."

Matt waited for Zoé to say more but she stayed silent. He turned on the radio but could find nothing classical. "Let's have another coffee somewhere," he suggested. "I can come back later. On my own. My guess is Jason Heinman will try to get through the wire when it's dark. I need to be here to see what he finds."

"If the 'Einmans are murderers I want them both in prison," said Zoé, any thoughts of soothing music obviously forgotten. "We will come back together."

He pointed down the track and grabbed hold of Zoé's arm. "Well now, just look who's coming."

*

JASON HEINMAN collected his father from the railway station in Calais and took him straight to the site. It was vital to get confirmation that this was the right place, before carrying out any digging. On the way Hammid's tracker beeped twice, three times, four times, and finally five. His father didn't seem to notice, but the English PI must be poking about already.

He stood with his father by the Citroen, looking at the high perimeter wire. He could see the orange Mini in the supermarket car park, parked so the driver and female passenger had a good view of the construction site. There was no point in driving away. Jason shrugged. If he'd been seen, he'd been seen. He had every right to be here, and Rider could do nothing about it.

"The fencing is new, Jason, but this sure is it. The old reed beds by the dikes, the row of pines on the top of the rise." His father pointed at the trees. "We flew in over those. I was only twenty at the time. Seeing it again is one hell of a shock."

"You never came here in a plane." He decided his father was making that bit up.

"I'm telling you, your grandfather Albert and I came right in over those pines in a Fieseler Storch. That damn German plane could fly like a chopper. The pilot told us he'd once landed in a back yard." His father laughed. "I could goddamn believe him too!"

Jason shook his head. "This place is a damn sight too well protected for my liking."

"It doesn't matter. We're not going in. Watch out for that guard; we don't want him wondering what we're up to. Are you carrying anything?"

"A Glock 17." He wasn't going to mention the deal he'd done with Hammid Aziz to get the Austrian handgun. "Picked it up in England."

His father leaned against the car. "Your grandfather's buried here, Jason. There weren't many survivors when the bunker blew. Your grandfather would have been all right if it hadn't been for that crazy Englishman. Once he found the Berlitzan oil there was no stopping him. He took a knife and hacked your grandfather to death."

"And you couldn't stop him?"

His father scuffed his shoe in the grass to clean a splash of mud from the toe, and turned angrily. "Are you suggesting something, boy?"

"Like what?"

"Like I didn't do my duty?"

"Hell no. I imagine..." Jason stopped and looked closely, making his father turn away. "Oh come on, you didn't...?"

"Berlitzan oil is evil." His father wiped his hands with his handkerchief. "No one can be blamed for how it affects them."

"Then ... Hey, I thought you said it was the English soldier."

"Get back in the car, boy. I don't like talking out here with those guards watching. Yes, sure it was the English soldier. First he hacked my father's hands off, and then put a grenade in his mouth as he screamed in agony."

Jason sat in the driving seat and raised his eyebrows. "And you watched?"

His father lay back against the headrest and closed his eyes. "I can see it all now. My father was screaming so much I ... I pulled the pin on the grenade, God help me. I've never told anyone before. It's one hell of a memory to be stuck with for the rest of your life."

"And it was the Berlitzan stuff?"

His father nodded, twisting in the passenger seat for a better view of the compound. "That, and the fact I hated my father. Berlitzan oil could finish DCI."

Jason smashed his hand against the dash. "DCI stinks. You've left me too many skeletons in the cupboard. All you've ever talked about since I was a kid is DCI this and DCI that. It's been one hell of a struggle living with DCI, and even now I'm the president I can't run the company without your interference."

"I'm protecting your future."

"Is that why you paid Aziz to put pressure on me?"

"I need you, Jason."

"That's more like it," he said bitterly. "But I don't need you." He switched the wipers on briefly as a light drizzle blew swirling clouds across the fields. The supermarket higher up the slope was busy with shoppers.

His father laughed awkwardly. "You know the agreement. Help me save the company and do yourself a favor at the same time."

Jason flicked the wipers again to have another look at the PI's car in the supermarket parking lot. The two occupants were still looking down onto the roadway running around the site. "You're a devious bastard. You've been screwing me as only you know how. Okay, so what do I do? Take out the old soldier?"

"If you mean Captain Rider, he's gone," his father said unsteadily.

"Gone?"

His father began to shake. "Hell, Jason, I just wish to God I'd used a grenade to do the job properly."

Jason felt sick. "You stupid old fool, you can't go around killing people. Not with your own hands."

"I'm not killing people. Just one." His father took out his handkerchief.

"What about my CEO? Miller's seriously injured. Was that you?"

"I sent Miller to England to sort things out for us."

"You should have consulted with me." Jason tried to control his anger. "Miller's absence has caused me a hell of a lot of problems. We have a company lawyer to handle this sort of thing. Simon Urquet could have flown up from our Geneva office in a couple of hours to pay Matt Rider off."

"Urquet knows nothing about the Berlitzan Project. This is family business."

Jason gripped the steering wheel tightly. "I'm in deep because of you. I've rented this car in my name. I didn't know you were planning to do anything like this."

"What the hell did you think I was going to do?"

"I thought you were going to start throwing money around, not embark on a massacre. I've not bothered to cover my tracks completely. We'll be picked up for sure."

His father wiped his hands in the handkerchief. "As far the police are concerned we're on holiday in the U.S. of A. Just like everyone thought your father and I were in forty-four when he got killed. The cops let that one go, Jason. They won't be asking questions at French car rentals."

He tried to laugh at his father's naivety, but he felt too angry for laughter. "And who's next," he demanded. "That blonde you met out here? The one I have to track down? Oh my God, it is isn't it?"

"Just find her for me." His father gripped his arm.

"You're obscene." He pulled himself free. "All you can think about is killing people who know about your sordid past. What does it matter to you? You'll be dead yourself soon."

His father ignored the taunts. "Have you found Sophie yet?"

He'd say no more. He'd tracked Matt Rider's car to a small house not far from the hotel, a house with an old woman standing by the door. He was planning to check who lived there, but there had been other things to occupy his time. After lunch he'd bought a metal detector in Calais and taken it to the beach to try it out. Finding the remaining cylinders of Berlitzan oil at the missile site was more important than finding an old crone.

He started the engine of the Citroen and turned to his father. "If you'd left the past alone, none of this would have happened. The old soldier would have had his brief moment of glory in the papers and everyone would have forgotten about it. You've really stirred up a rats' nest."

Then he noticed his father's right hand. "Just look at that ring," he added. "That's the old soldier's ring, isn't it? You're macabre, you are. That damn ring won't do you any good. You're like Midas in reverse." He hit the Citroen into gear. "All the gold you touch turns brown."

He swung the car round and glanced in his mirror as the Citroen bounced onto the track used by the construction traffic. The Mini was still in the supermarket park. Matt Rider needed a lesson in minding his own business.

The car jerked violently as it hit the bumps but Jason was oblivious to the surface of the track. "Hold the speed down, boy," his father shouted. "I can't hang on with my bad arm."

"If you can't take it, you shouldn't have come."

They drove past the rear of the Mini.

"You want to know where the English PI is?" said Jason. "That's his car. He's sitting in it with a young woman, and they've been watching us since we arrived. I wonder if he knows you murdered his grandfather last night."

"Hell, Jason, what do we do?"

"How about I shoot him?"

It was meant to be a joke, but his father wiped his hands anxiously. "Jason, my son, I sure as hell would like that PI out of my hair."

*

"They've seen us, so there's no point in going after them." Matt put the camera on the floor behind his seat. Five clear photographs on maximum zoom. "The old man's got a scar on his chin, like the man at the hospital."

"He is the man who killed your grandfather?"

"He's like the man Sister Ewing described. Except for his moustache."

"It was ... very little. Short."

"That's the only thing that's wrong. Sister Ewing said the man in the clerical collar -- Fergus Hawkins \-- had a big drooping moustache. The age is right though."

"He used a disguise?"

"Wouldn't you, if you went to kill someone?"

"I hope I would never kill anyone. And why would I want a moustache?" Zoé put her hand to her mouth. "I told you, they have come to kill you."

"I doubt it. I think they came here to look at the site, not me."

"You are right. They have come to recover their poison."

"It's only a theory."

"Go to the gendarmes."

"They'll need hard evidence. Anyway, the man at the garage told me the captain of the local gendarmes is useless."

"So what are you planning to do? Arrest the 'Einmans yourself?"

The white Citroen was now out of sight. Matt shook his head. "They'll be back. I'm coming here tonight to keep watch."

The drizzle should be easing soon. He started the engine. A trickle of water fell onto his lap from the roof lining as the wiper blades squeaked their way across the screen. The sky over the Channel looked brighter already. Perhaps it would be a fine evening.

"What's up, Zoé?"

Zoé suddenly broke her silence. "Your grandfather has been murdered, and all you want to do is watch?" She hit him hard on the shoulder.

"What do you suggest?"

"What do I suggest? You are the detective, not me."

He rubbed his shoulder. "I came to France to question Sophie. I didn't know anyone was going to murder my grandfather."

"You have taken some pictures of Monsieur 'Einman. We will go to England with the film and give to your friends at the Trinity Green police station."

"In the meantime those two will be back here digging up their gold. They'd be home in the States before the police started to do anything. We need to stay right here."

"You must make a plan."

"That's what Ken keeps telling me. Planning, planning, planning. I don't need a plan; I need evidence."

"We will get the film processed in Calais and show the pictures to Sophie Boissant. If she can identify Frank 'Einman, you have all the evidence you need."

"Frank Heinman's an old man." Sophie had been pleasant to talk to, but most old people seemed to have some form of senility, advanced or otherwise. "She probably wouldn't even recognize Frank Heinman from a photo taken during the war."

"Always you see the problems. Sophie remembers your grandfather. She called him her Tommy," Zoé reminded him.

He felt depressed, but he didn't want to knock down every idea Zoé had. "It's worth a try."

She clutched his arm. "I think Sophie is in danger. Perhaps the 'Einmans read her name in the paper. Maybe they have gone to kill her."

He suddenly felt himself come awake. It was as though he'd been in a dream since learning of his grandfather's murder. "Of course Sophie is in danger. I've been too wrapped up in my family problems to see it."

"We will go to her now, mon cher."

"Too right we will." He nodded to himself. We? With a bit of luck Zoé wasn't planning to catch a train south, back to the arms of her beloved Florian.

*

SOPHIE SEEMED surprised to see them again so soon.

"The Americans have had many years to find me. No, they will not come here." She made the idea sound absurd.

"They're already in France," said Matt. "We've just seen them. It's possible the older one killed my grandfather last night."

Sophie remained silent, her red eyes almost closed. Then she looked up slowly. "What you say is a terrible thing, monsieur. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Can you remember the name of the Americans?"

"Yes, it was Heinman." She emphasized the H in a way no other French person did. "The young one was called Frank. I remember him clearly. Such a frightened rabbit of a boy."

Matt felt excited. "Would you be willing to come with us now to the gendarmes?"

Sophie looked troubled. "It is a hard thing you ask, Matt. No, I cannot do it. It was a dreadful time for me."

"It's important," he insisted.

"Perhaps another day," said Sophie.

"Tomorrow?" asked Matt.

"Yes, tomorrow."

Zoé nodded. "Is there anywhere you can go tonight where you will be safe?"

"I could go to my sister Martha for a few days."

"Where does she live?" Zoé took careful hold of Sophie's thin arm.

"It is not far," said Sophie, "but she is old."

Everyone's old, thought Matt. "We will take you in our car." They'd probably manage to get Sophie into the front seat.

"Maintenant." Zoé sounded adamant.

Sophie shook her head, not quite in bewilderment, but certainly she was seeing difficulties. "But Martha does not know I am coming," she protested.

Matt realized he had to do something quickly to avoid upsetting Sophie. "We'll take you to see her, madame, and then we'll bring you back here to pack your things. Please, it's very important that you do not stay in your house alone."

*

MARTHA GREETED the three of them warmly and said of course Sophie must stay with her for as long as necessary. But when they took Sophie back to her own house to pack she insisted she would take a taxi to her sister's -- when she was ready. By the time Matt and Zoé got to the Heinmans' hotel it was nearly dark, but the white Citroen was still in the car park. If the two men were indoors, at least they'd be out of Sophie's way.

"Sophie, she is stubborn, Matt. I would be very surprised if she moved out of her house tonight. I think you must tell the gendarmes about the 'Einmans, and they can protect her."

Matt switched on the wipers and squirted the washers to clear the dead flies off the screen, without much success. "And what would the gendarmes do? They'd go to the Heinmans' hotel and ask a few questions, then go away. I don't want the Heinmans tipped off before Sophie sees the gendarmes in the morning. They could make a runner for the States. Anyway, we can't be sure Sophie won't change her mind. If she refuses to tell her story we'd look stupid."

"So you are doing nothing?"

"I'm further ahead than you think." He pointed to the dashboard clock. "It's after nine, so there won't be anyone senior at the gendarmerie. In the morning I'm going to give them the film, and make sure they contact the British police at Trinity Green. That way, the police both side of the Channel will know what's going on. Maybe they'll work together."

For the first time in this investigation he could see a way forward. He put his hand protectively on his shoulder in case Zoé hit him again in her frustration. "Let's wait here and watch. We can win this one."

He wished he felt as positive as he tried to sound.

*

AT NINE-THIRTY, Jason Heinman slipped out of the hotel with a metal detector. Even under the street lights it was possible to recognize it by the shape. Matt guessed it would be easy for Jason Heinman to buy a detector in Calais. The tall American with the pony tail threw it into the back of the Citroen and drove off alone.

"Viens, Matt, we will follow." Zoé sounded excited.

Matt put his hand on her arm. "Not yet. There's only one place he's going. We're about to get the evidence we need, and I don't want to blow it. I might be able to get a few more photographs if the floods are on."

There was no point in following the Citroen in their distinctive Mini. They needed to watch without being seen. The nerve of the man surprised Matt. Surely the security guards stayed on duty round the clock at the construction site. Perhaps not; perhaps they thought no one would be stupid enough to be poking around after dark when the supermarket closed.

"What we need is a French car on local plates. Something like one of your friend's old bangers." It was half a joke, half a serious suggestion.

"Philippe." Zoé smiled. "Philippe is very keen to give me his personal attention. But it is his brother who sells the old cars, not the Garage de Saint Somer." She pointed to the open map on her lap, illuminated with a flashlight kept in the door pocket for night-time emergencies. "I think I can find a way to the construction site down a little track that goes through the woods. It will be un raccourci, a short cut. Maybe we will get there first."

"As long as we don't catch anything underneath," said Matt anxiously. "I'm not too sure about the exhaust. Okay, call out the way."

*

PIERRE DELOIS glanced up at the murky sky. The drizzle that had been sweeping across the construction site throughout the day seemed to have stopped at last, but thick clouds still scurried in from the west. He'd not wanted this job. Security at a busy night club was more in his line, with plenty of young women to impress. This place was too lonely. Henri had slipped into town to visit a friend. It was totally against the company rules of course; there were always supposed to be two men on duty after dark. What did the management think -- the ghost of the Dutchman was coming back with his big knife?

He stood in the doorway of the security cabin and checked that all the perimeter lights were working. Slowly he breathed in the night air. A handful of old locals had got together recently and decided that this area had been some sort of Nazi war base. Not that they'd ever mentioned it before -- not until the Dutchman came here with his metal detector.

Within hours the site had been swamped. Half the rabble had come to eyeball the bloodstained ground, the other half to dig for treasure. News of Nazi gold spread rapidly, but no one had been allowed to search -- except the authorities. And they'd found nothing other than a tonne of scrap metal in small pieces.

Even now treasure hunters tried to get into the compound with their detectors. He blamed the irresponsible press. What had possessed a group of ordinary shoppers to take on a maniac with a knife? And why would the crowd turn on each other? There were some weird people about. Anyway, by this time next week the whole site would be covered in concrete, and no one would be able to dig. Then they could take down the security fence.

Henri wouldn't be back for another hour, perhaps two. Pierre glanced at his watch for the sixth time in ten minutes. Thinking about those killings made him anxious. A noisy car drew up out of sight in the unlit zone close to the reed beds.

Perhaps the management were right to insist on doubling up the roster at night. This was an isolated spot when the supermarket closed. Treasure hunters didn't all come with spades and trowels. Some used long knives. Knives were quick, so they said. He stood with his back firmly against the wall of the cabin. The Dutchman had been using a large knife.

He took some comfort from the tall chain link fencing between himself and the outside world. Even so, it might be best to turn on the auxiliary floods. He had a bad feeling about this night.

Chapter 17

SOMEWHERE ALONG the way a small rock had caught the exhaust system, and every time they drove over a bump the engine became noisier. Zoé's raccourci through the woods came out in a small track on the far side of the supermarket site. Matt parked in the shelter of the reeds and rolled under the car with the torch to see how bad the damage was.

He emerged holding a small plastic box from under the wheel arch.

"What is it?" asked Zoé.

"Someone wants to know where we are. Damn." He pulled the battery compartment open and tore out the small nine volt battery. "Let's see if it's fresh." He touched the terminals on his tongue and pulled a face. "It's new. This bug was put here for us." He left the battery out and threw the bug into the back of the Mini. "I bet it was the Heinmans. Jason Heinman's been following our every move."

Suddenly Zoé called out. "Look, Monsieur 'Einman is coming."

The white Citroen drove past the site and stopped a few yards down the road, caught in the floodlights. Jason Heinman jumped out and stood beside the wire. Maybe he was waiting for the lights on the construction site to go out. In that case he was wasting his time. Extra floods suddenly bathed the whole area in a harsh glare.

Zoé caught hold of Matt's hand and pulled him back. "Be careful. Monsieur 'Einman may know we are here from his little bug. Perhaps he has a gun."

Matt knew that Zoé was serious in her warning, and she might well be right. He tried to pass it off. "Well, I'm not armed. I'm just a simple PI. And the bug is dead now."

"There is a sharp knife in the food box, Tommy. Here, take it."

"Tommy?" He took the knife.

Zoé laughed nervously. "I keep thinking about your grandfather. Sophie said her Tommy had a knife."

They stood silently on the sandy ground by the side of the car. Matt's ears had been deadened to the outside world during the drive, but his hearing was now recovering and he became aware of the sounds of the countryside at night.

So much for Zoé's shortcut. The whole exhaust system would need fixing before they went back to England. Maybe he'd get himself a different car. Maybe Tom Grieves had a son with an unwanted wreck, or Florian might have a spare Mercedes. Whatever he got, he'd check it for trackers.

He peered into the darkness. "Listen: les grenouilles, frogs." The deep croaking came from all around. The reed beds must be full of the creatures.

Zoé pushed her way in front, seemingly untroubled as the dripping reeds soaked her clothing. "Keep still." She put her hand out to keep him back.

Matt held onto it, gaining a sense of confidence. Angry voices from the gate to the compound were followed by a single shot that made them both jump. Seconds later the site was plunged into darkness. The frogs became still.

Matt put his arms round Zoé and held her tightly. Her damp body against his felt beautiful. He pulled her even closer and smelt her perfume. She made no attempt to break free. Why did this have to happen now, out here amongst the wet reeds?

"One of them has been shot. Keep still," he cautioned.

"Please." Zoé began to struggle at last. "Let me have the air."

A hand lamp flashed wildly across the compound, then the person holding it swept the beam slowly up and then down the road.

"We will go closer and see who it is," whispered Zoé.

To Matt's annoyance she broke away from his grip. It had been good while it lasted. "These reeds are noisy," he warned. "Move slowly."

The reed bed ended close to the tall wire link fencing. Matt was reluctant to break cover. Before he could argue the point with Zoé the floodlights came on with such suddenness he could almost hear the sound of the light. The American was moving cautiously inside the compound under the full glare of the floods. Even with the headphones on, it was unmistakably Jason Heinman, the tall man with the pointed beard and baseball hat.

"He must have shot the guard. You're right, Zoé, we should have gone to the gendarmes."

"I can find the way to the gendarmerie in Saint Omer," Zoé whispered. "Come back with me through the reeds."

"You go. I'll wait here until the gendarmes come."

"But Monsieur 'Einman has a gun. He will shoot you."

"No, Zoé, I want you to get away. Tell the gendarmes the man is armed."

Zoé hesitated, holding his hands. "I am worried about you, Matt."

"He's already started digging. He's too interested in his detector to notice me."

Zoé gave him a kiss. She held him tightly, even after their lips parted. "Be careful, Tommy."

Matt heard the Mini leave. Probably half of the Pas-de-Calais heard it, the exhaust was so loud. It sounded like the start of a Grand Prix. Jason Heinman sprinted to the security cabin.

The lights went off, plunging the area blackness.

*

THE SOUND of the engine alarmed Jason, but he was reassured to hear the raucous car drive away from the site. Probably some boy racer with a souped-up engine showing off to his girlfriend. He felt agitated enough already, having taken a wrong turning in the dark and becoming totally lost.

He'd activated the tracker when he was getting near the site, just to check that Rider wasn't around, but the receiver had stayed silent. The inquisitive PI must be well out of range, perhaps even back in England. Anyway, that certainly wasn't a small engined car. Perhaps he'd missed a courting couple down one of the small tracks.

He turned the floods on again and continued his search. He'd made a mistake with the lights. This site would always be lit right through the night. Putting the place into darkness, even for two or three minutes, had been stupid. And that damned Glock had been deafening.

He lifted the headphones from his ears and stared across at the high chain link fencing. His father was positive: right here, where the drainage ditches intersected, the blonde had buried the gold cylinders. Twelve samples of Berlitzan oil, brought to this place by his father and grandfather. Twelve gold cylinders intended for testing on the English.

No, not twelve any more. The English soldier had wasted one in 1944, and the crazy Dutchman Van Heteren had found one. But there should still be ten -- just waiting to be dug up. He'd promised Hammid Aziz two, which left eight to take back to the States for analysis. Eight cylinders that would guarantee him financial security for the rest of his life. He could walk away from Domestic Chemicals any time he wanted and supply the international arms trade with a world-beater.

He decided to keep his gloves on to make sure everything he touched would be free of prints -- even the Glock. He looked at the illuminated display panel on the metal detector. The hi-tech machine needed adjusting yet again. The dealer in Calais insisted this was the latest state-of-the-art device that would work where other machines failed miserably. The range of settings in manual mode seemed complex, with knobs for setting sensitivity and background threshold, but the only position of interest on the scale was marked Gold. Thankfully the instructions came in English as well as French.

He'd spent the whole afternoon on that damned beach outside Calais burying test objects, coins and bottle tops and rusty bolts, and his gold ring. It had been a struggle to get any sort of response at depth. And then, in spite of the heavy drizzle he'd mastered it. The machine detected his signet ring in the wet sand, while leaving the nearby ferrous objects alone. But things had changed since leaving the beach.

He fiddled with the threshold control. It had worked this afternoon. Once he'd got it right, he'd gone on to dig up two gold rings lost by bathers, and a badly corroded watch with a gold case. The ingenious meter was clever by the sea, but useless inland. The headphones chattered away noisily, while the needle wavered like a crazy pendulum. If he could dig up just one cylinder of Berlitzan oil he'd go away happy.

The instructions warned that under some conditions pieces of aluminum and iron could give a positive reading on the gold setting. They could, and they did. He'd already found plenty of both. A loud signal raised his hopes -- until he dug out yet another strip of rusty metal. Several other ferrous objects gave positive bleeps, though the meter readings tallied with the gold sector. The Dutchman must have been a magician.

He looked around. Someone might have seen the compound lights go off and then on. He got another signal from the detector. It hardly seemed worth digging, but he felt obliged to use the small folding spade the dealer had strongly recommended. The people who designed these stupid detectors should be made to use them on sites like this.

He caught sight of a flash of gold about twelve inches down, just in time to stop himself plunging the folding spade into the red soil at the bottom of the hole.

The gold glinted under the floods. Gold was an amazing metal. No matter how long it was in the ground, it always came up as fresh as the day it was put there. Carefully he lifted the slender cylinder from the soil, glad of the protection his gloves gave from the dirt. The detector had actually lived up to its claims. He ran the search head over the hole and got another signal, slightly to the left. He clawed at the soil to remove another large piece of rusty steel.

No way was he giving up now. With the ferrous metal out of the way he swept the search head over the hole again, and got several sharp signals over an area the size of a large doormat.

Soon he had ten small cylinders side by side on the wet grass, looking like a row of golden candles. Berlitzan oil.

For a moment he paused, wondering how his father and his grandfather had felt when they brought these cylinders here on a night like this. Albert B. Heinman, president of Domestic Chemicals Incorporated, 1921 to 1944. He could show a moment's respect for the old bastard, the grandfather he'd never known.

The wail was not a ghost of the departed. He leapt to his feet. The French gendarmes were coming -- or one of the emergency services. The driver of the noisy car must have been watching and had gone for help. He grabbed the gold.

His Citroen was parked just round the corner. As he reached the security gate someone slipped across the road, caught for a moment in the floodlights, before disappearing into the reed beds.

It looked like Rider, Matt Rider, the English PI. Hell, his father wanted him dead. The man was trouble. He raised his Glock and fired three shots in rapid succession. As the nine-millimeter rounds ripped through the reeds he turned and raced towards his car.

In the confusion he fell, and the small cylinders flew from his gloves as he sprawled across the grass verge. Someone shouted from the reeds and the siren got closer.

One small cylinder had gone, but the rest were within reach. He snatched them up. Nine out of ten were better than nothing. The expensive detector would have to stay. He fired two more shots towards the shouting then flung the Glock and his gloves into the reeds. If he was stopped he wanted to be clean.

The siren was coming from the west. He would drive east.

Chapter 18

ONE OF THE shots missed him by less than a yard as he dove into the reeds. Matt watched the white Citroen accelerate in a shower of loose grit seconds before the gendarmes' car skidded to a halt with its wheels locked. Why so much noise? The siren had been clear for a couple of miles.

Perhaps something good had come from the American's panic. Out there in the reeds was a small gold cylinder. It was the proof he needed to establish DCI's criminal past. He ran towards the black car as a very tall gendarme jumped out pointing a black handgun.

"Halt!" the man shouted.

Matt raised his open hands. He'd not expected this. The gendarme's handgun looked like the latest MR38 Special, a powerful weapon. "The American went that way!" He pointed down the road.

The tall man kept the gun pointed in his direction. "Stay where you are, monsieur. We have a report of a shooting."

Matt felt like screaming. Instead, he spoke slowly in the best French he could manage. "The man in the white Citroen is an American. He had a gun and he shot the guard. His name is Jason Heinman."

The second gendarme, a short man with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, climbed slowly from the car. "Stand very still, monsieur. Alphonse is a good shot."

With Alphonse holding the handgun, the short man walked forward and caught hold of Matt's arm, twisting it behind his back.

Matt struggled ineffectively to break away. "Listen to me. I saw the American shoot the guard. Then he tried to shoot me."

"An American? You saw him shoot the guard, monsieur?" The tall gendarme called Alphonse sounded skeptical.

"Well, no, I didn't see him, but I heard the shot."

"The shot?"

"Yes, the shot." Matt knew his French wasn't that bad. It seemed impossible to communicate with these two men.

"You have a gun, monsieur?" The grip on his shoulder strengthened. "Search him, Alphonse."

"Of course I don't have a gun," Matt protested. "My girlfriend was here with me. She phoned you."

Alphonse came forward and pulled Zoé's knife from Matt's pocket. "Look, the innocent foreigner has a weapon."

"You're letting the murderer get away!" He knew his impatience was an invitation to the small gendarme to increase the pressure of the grip still further. He tried again to break free.

"Do not escape, monsieur. If you run away, I will have to shoot you."

More than likely Alphonse meant it. All foreigners were automatically guilty. He had no intention of becoming a victim of a shoot first, and ask questions later, policy. The other gendarme picked up Jason Heinman's metal detector.

"My girlfriend is coming," Matt said. There was no mistaking the sound of the fractured exhaust.

Zoé pulled the Mini to a halt in front of the gates. She turned the key and the engine died with a cough and a rattle. The exhaust system had not only been weakened by her earlier raccourci, it sounded as though it had broken away completely.

Alphonse shone a flashlight into Zoé's face. "Step out of the car, mademoiselle. Please."

Matt stayed motionless, held tightly by the small gendarme.

"Do what he says, Zoé. They suspect us of something."

Alphonse laughed. "We do, monsieur. We suspect you of midnight treasure hunting. This is a very expensive detector."

His little partner joined in. "I think we have come just in time, Alphonse. Now we have to find what has happened to Henri and Pierre. They are good friends of ours. I hope you have not harmed them, mes amis."

Zoé stood beside the Mini with the door held half open. "Where is Jason 'Einman?" she demanded.

"He got away. The police are the same everywhere -- they won't listen." Matt turned to the gendarme holding him. "You have to set up roadblocks."

The gendarme tossed his head. "You are a policeman?"

"A private investigator. Yes, I used to be a policeman. If you go to our car you will find my camera under the passenger seat. I have taken photographs of the man you want."

"Ah, a private dick with a camera. But you must leave the investigating to us, I think. Come, Alphonse, we will go into the compound and find Henri and Pierre. The Englishman will walk in front of us. The young lady will keep close to us."

Alphonse laughed. "As close as possible."

Matt knew there was no longer any urgency. Jason Heinman would be far away after such a waste of time, but the guard's body should convince these two men that a serious crime had been committed. Once they found the body, things would move fast.

*

THE HOTEL CAR park had a few spaces left, but Jason wanted to avoid someone seeing him arrive. He drove past the hotel and parked the Citroen in an unlit side street two blocks away. The dashboard clock said eleven-eighteen. There'd be a major alert on by now, with all hotel car parks being searched, and roadblocks in place.

He had nine gold small cylinders of Berlitzan oil in his pockets. It was time to face his father.

He was reluctant to knock too hard on the bedroom door, afraid of waking the other guests. When at last his father opened it, with just enough of a gap to allow the caller to speak, he pushed his way through. His father stood in pale green silk pajamas, looking confused.

"We have to get out of here," Jason said urgently. "The cops are coming for us."

"Tell me what you're talking about. Slowly." His father sounded bewildered after being asleep. "Why would the cops want us?"

"The French cops, the gendarmes. I had to kill the guard at the compound. He..."

"Sit down, Jason." His father wiped his hands in the bed cover. "You've fouled up over something. Tell me about it -- in simple words."

"Okay, so I killed a guard." He shrugged, and forced an embarrassed smile. "I went back to the missile site."

"What the hell were you doing there at this time of night?"

"I went back."

"I know you went back. You've told me that a hundred times." His father slipped off his pajama jacket and began to put his arms into his shirt sleeves.

"I wanted to see if there was any gold left."

"You're a fool, boy. I told you to leave it alone."

"It was DCI gold. If a Dutchman could find it, so could the cops -- or the army. I'm the president of DCI now, and I don't want evidence left in the ground."

"You're still a fool." His father pulled his pants up and fumbled with the zip. His right arm made the movement difficult. "If you've killed a guard, I can't keep the cops off you. I can't risk being implicated."

"The hell you can't." He felt angry. "If they pick me up, they'll tie you in with that murder in England."

His father just nodded.

"They'll stitch us both up for this." He felt his voice shaking with panic.

"Not necessarily, Jason. Not necessarily." His father only had his socks to put on now. "Did the cops see you?"

"No."

"Then I suggest we pay Sophie a visit. You know where she lives?"

"I don't know for sure."

"You told me."

"Okay, so I saw Rider's car outside a house near here. He was with an old woman, but I've not checked if she's called Sophie. Hell, I didn't know you were going to kill her tonight."

"But I said..."

"I know what you said." Jason went to the window and pulled the drapes apart. The car park was quiet. He let them fall back. "Okay, so I probably know where she lives. Great. We go and waste her now -- and the gendarmes stop looking for us? Are you crazy?"

"You always were slow, Jason. We don't waste her; we use her. She watched that English soldier murder my father in the war. She's hardly going to be on his side."

"Why should she remember you?"

"She'll remember me on the bunk. Hell, Jason, it wasn't my fault. I was too scared to touch her. But I can remind her about my father getting killed with the grenade."

Jason sneered. "Remind her? I wouldn't think she's forgotten something like that. Then what?"

"If she's friendly we give her money. Ask her for an alibi for tonight. She can say we spent the evening with her. That will get you in the clear."

"And if she's not friendly?"

His father nodded.

*

WHEN THE gendarmes found the body of Pierre Delois on the floor of the cabin, their suspicion against Matt and Zoé intensified. Matt tried again to convince the two men that he'd been a witness to the crime, rather than the perpetrator.

"There's a small gold cylinder in the reeds. Find it. It's too dangerous to leave lying around," he explained.

"Gold?" snapped the small gendarme, still holding Matt by the shoulder. They had now discovered his name was Charles. "Is that what you came for, treasure hunter?" He pushed Matt into the corner of the small cabin where the body of the guard had now been covered with a large yellow waterproof coat.

"Stop it!" Zoé's scream brought everyone to silence. "You do not want to know the truth!" She sounded furious.

Alphonse laughed brusquely. "Is that so? Charles is going outside to look for Henri Giray. We think you have murdered him, too."

Matt had met stubborn policemen before; even been one himself. He'd never persuade these two men to be impartial. "Can we use your radio?" He asked the question in what he hoped was a reasonable voice.

Alphonse began to pick his teeth with a dirty matchstick. "Damn bits of chicken. You took me away from my supper." It sounded as though he considered this the greater crime.

"Get in touch with your headquarters," insisted Zoé. "Perhaps someone there has enough sense to listen to us."

Alphonse nodded in agreement. "I have already been in touch. We are to wait for the forensic team. Someone will listen all right. Le magistrat \-- in the morning. Treasure hunting on this site is bad enough, but murder is a crime for a life sentence, mademoiselle."

A shout broke the silence of the compound. Alphonse raised his MR38. With the handgun pointed at Matt he opened the door. "Do not move, monsieur. I think perhaps my partner Charles has found the second body."

Charles ran towards the hut and stopped in the doorway. A slight mist had formed, and the high intensity halogen floodlights made a halo around the small gendarme. "Arrest these two," he said breathlessly.

"A double murder?" Alphonse seemed almost excited by the prospect. Probably they didn't regularly catch criminals this easily.

"Just the one so far. But I have found their gold -- and a Glock. Regardez!" The gendarme held up the gold small cylinder and a dull black handgun in his gloved hands.

"Be careful!" warned Matt. "Prenez garde! That gold is dangerous."

"Gold is dangerous, monsieur?" Big Alphonse clearly didn't believe such nonsense. "It is dangerous for murderers, perhaps, because it is evidence. It will get you the death sentence for this. Innocent men do not carry a Glock." He took the black plastic-cased handgun from Charles, using a stylo to hold it by the end of the barrel, and put it on the table. Then, holding his MR38 handgun, Alphonse shoved Matt out through the door. "Get into the car, monsieur. And you, mademoiselle. We are locking you both up for the night."

Charles began to examine the gold cylinder as he smoked a foul smelling cigarette. "I think perhaps this is what the Dutchman found." His eyes narrowed as he considered the implications of his statement. "It was lost in the fighting, but the description is the same. A gold candle, but no one could find it. See, private policeman, we are not as stupid as you would like to believe. You have come back here and committed a murder, just to find this gold."

"Perhaps two murders." Alphonse yawned as he picked up the handset for the radio. "We will tell headquarters to hurry up and send someone to search the site. In the meantime we will get these two murderers down to the gendarmerie."

Charles began to twist the cap. "It is like a candle, but the end comes off."

"Non!" Matt jerked his hand out and snatched at the gold cylinder.

Alphonse turned his MR38 in his hand and gripped it by the barrel, hitting Matt a sharp blow on the side of the head with the butt. "Keep still, monsieur!"

"Lache!" snapped Zoé.

Matt lay back in the car seat. He could feel blood running from above his left ear, warm on his cool skin, but he was afraid to move his hand to wipe it. Alphonse was a sadistic psychopath. "There is a dangerous chemical inside," he explained slowly. "Do not remove the top."

Alphonse raised his eyebrows. "So the treasure hunter is an ammunitions expert?" He laughed again. "Oh, monsieur, your head is bleeding. You must be more careful, monsieur!"

Charles threw the butt of his cigarette out of the car window. "Perhaps the Englishman is right. Perhaps we should treat it with care."

Matt could sense the mood changing.

"Very well, monsieur." Charles carefully placed the small cylinder on the dashboard. It rolled forward and his hands snatched at it nervously. "Yes, perhaps it is dangerous. We will call our chief at home and he can get some expert help. We have read the confidential report of the incident at this site. It does make sense what you say. But you have both made a big mistake in coming here with your gun and detector."

"You're the ones who have made the mistake." Matt said bitterly. "You should be looking for an American called Jason Heinman. He's driving a white Citroen from the Garage de Saint Somer. I've already told you, there are photos of him in my camera. It's in the car."

"My friend knows what he is talking about," insisted Zoé. "He is a private investigator. You have made a big mistake, messieurs."

Alphonse laughed loudly. "And you have made a bigger mistake, mademoiselle. You have been caught!"

"Sophie Boissant!" Matt felt a sudden fear for the old woman.

Zoé put her hand to her mouth. "I hope she listened to us and moved out."

"Be quiet!" shouted Alphonse. "My partner is speaking to headquarters on the radio."

"Tell them to go to the house of an old woman," said Matt. "It is most urgent."

"I told you to be quiet, monsieur. It is almost midnight. There will be plenty of time to sort it out in the morning."

Matt turned sideways to look at the tall gendarme who was still picking his teeth, and was probably ready to use the butt of his gun again. He had to risk getting hit a second time. "I have Sophie Boissant's address. Tell your headquarters to go to her house."

Alphonse lifted his gun from his lap. "Be silent, monsieur. You are to wait here until our chief arrives to assess the danger."

"And while we are waiting, they will murder an old woman!" Zoé showed how angry she was, and not for the first time.

"And who are they?" asked Alphonse in amusement.

"Two Americans," said Matt.

"Ah, there are two Americans now. And are they both murderers?" Alphonse's voice was heavy with sarcasm and disbelief.

"Let me talk to your chief on the radio," demanded Matt.

Alphonse yawned. "There is no hurry, monsieur." He shrugged his broad shoulders and yawned again. "I assure you, nothing is going to happen to the old woman while we are waiting. Captain Lacoste says he will be here within the hour."

Chapter 19

JASON WATCHED his father pull the drapes aside for yet another look into the street. If he pulled at them once more he'd hit him. "Leave them alone, you stupid fool, it's nearly midnight. You might as well be flashing the light on and off as a signal. I thought we were going to see Sophie."

"When I killed that old soldier I went too far." His father sounded spent. "Don't you think we've gone too far?"

"You went too far when you came here in the war to suck up to the Nazis." Jason shook his head. "Before Grandfather got his head blown off, that's when you should have got cold feet. Not now, with the French cops hot on our tails."

His father returned anxiously to the window.

"What the hell are you looking for, you stupid old man?" Jason shouted, snatching at the drapes. Then he forced himself to quieten down. "I'm the one they'll be looking for."

"They can't touch either of us. No one knows we've left America."

"I've rented a car."

"I thought you rented it in the backwoods."

"I did, with my driving license in the name of Heinman."

His father stayed silent as he thought about this one. "They'll have to ask a lot of questions before they find the garage."

"They always ask a lot of questions when there's been a murder."

"You could say someone stole your license."

Jason sighed. "I'm not the only one with a problem. I bet you left fingerprints at the English clinic when you killed the old soldier."

His father shook his head. "I disguised myself with a big moustache, and Alec Rider was still alive when the hospital sister saw me leave. Anyway, I took a simple precaution. Gloves."

"And I wore gloves when I shot the guard." Jason smiled smugly. "We'll high tail it back to America from Paris tonight."

His father closed the drapes. Carefully this time. "It's not that simple. It never is. They'll need our passports for the air tickets."

"I know how they'll get you." Jason felt triumphant. "American Express!"

"When?"

"When you booked my Eurostar trip to France. And I bet you paid the hotel in England with your card. They've got your name." He grinned in jubilation. "You're a devious old rat, but you've left leads for the cops to trace you. No one's going to believe you're still in America! You're not used to doing things for yourself. You always relied on your staff to do your dirty work and clean up afterwards."

His father closed his eyes and swayed unsteadily. "I wish to God I was home, Jason. All I ever wanted to do was save Domestic Chemicals." He spoke the words without emotion. "The company comes first for me. It always has." He flicked the catches on his briefcase and raised the lid. "Even if it means killing my son."

"Hell, no, you couldn't." Jason backed away as he tried to see what was inside.

From the black case his father produced a cigar. "Okay, let's see if Sophie will give us an alibi, then we can head for Switzerland and see Simon Urquet. He's the sharpest cookie we've got in DCI. Give me your cell phone. I'll phone him now at his hotel in Geneva."

"What the hell for?"

"Urquet can tell New York to fly our Gulfstream over to Geneva. He'll get us back to the States on it, and cover our tracks at the same time. If anyone asks, Urquet can sure as hell confirm we're on holiday in America."

Jason sat on the edge of the bed while his father puffed at his cigar. "You old bastard, I thought you had a gun in there. I thought you were going to kill me." He felt like laughing now the shock was over. "If Urquet can pull us out of this one, I'll sell my soul to Domestic."

"I sold mine in nineteen forty-four," his father said bitterly. "Are you prepared to kill Sophie?"

Jason stared in horror. "You do your own dirty work." His father had finally gone mad. "You really mean to kill her?"

"Sure. I've got a knife like the one I used on the old soldier in England."

"And then we head for Switzerland?"

His father pushed his briefcase shut and took one last look around the room. "We wait until it's light -- until the French cops aren't bothering with roadblocks. Urquet's a good legal man, a damn good one. Hell, Jason, we pay him enough. So where does Sophie live?"

He felt like lying, like saying her house was in another town, but perhaps his own security depended on there being no witnesses left. "Not far."

"Could we walk it?"

"Someone might see us."

"It's better than using that car you rented. That's what the cops will be looking for, not two tourists out for a late walk."

His father picked up the phone and dialed a Swiss number. Jason listened as his father exchanged heated words with the company lawyer. Urquet had obviously dared be asleep in the middle of the night. Since coming to Europe he was seeing his father in a new light. No longer the passive man who got others to do his bidding, he was an angry old fool who'd kill anyone who threatened DCI. An old man who could even threaten his son with death -- and mean it.

*

THE OLD woman's house was somewhere in the middle of a row of identical places, in a poorly lit street a short walk from the hotel. Jason tugged at his father's arm.

"Keep up with me if you don't want to get lost."

"It's further than I thought, Jason. You should have come alone."

"You're the one who wants to kill the old woman. Here, this is the place."

"Are you sure?"

Jason shrugged. "No, I'm not sure. It's too dark. The English PI might have been at the house next door."

"Then what...?"

"We ring this bell first and see who comes."

"I won't recognize her, Jason."

"You're pathetic. Of course you won't recognize her. I'm going to ask her who she is."

"Your French isn't too good."

"I can say Sophie."

The windows were in darkness and Jason's long ring on the bell went unanswered. His father reached forward impatiently and knocked the large knocker.

"Leave it." Jason pulled him away roughly, deliberately hurting his bad arm. "You'll wake the neighbors."

He already had. An old woman put her head out of an upstairs window of the house next door.

"Nous cherchons Sophie," Jason called. She should understand something as simple as that.

"Sophie," said the woman.

Frank Heinman put his gloves on and stood back. "You're Sophie?" he called up in English.

"Sophie," she repeated.

"See here," called Frank, as though everyone spoke English. "We need to talk."

"Comment?" she shouted.

Jason took over. "Descendez, s'il vous plaît." Amazingly no other residents had come to their windows. Maybe they all slept round the back.

Jason watched while his father used his gloves to wipe the blade and handle of fingerprints, and he felt nauseous. "Are you sure you need to do this?"

"Just get her down here, boy, and leave her to me."

They heard a rattle of a bolt and a security chain. Then the door opened, revealing a frail woman lit from behind by a bare bulb in the small hallway.

Jason jumped back in horror as his father lunged forward with the knife, lifting it upwards as it went in. No waiting. No questions. One sudden move and the old woman fell backwards, her small hands clutching her stomach, her eyes frozen in shock. The slight gasp was more of surprise than pain.

Frank threw the knife into the hall and left the old woman lying in the doorway, her body still quivering. As he stood on the garden path his voice shook. "Come on, Jason, let's get the hell back to the hotel before the cops come looking for us. I've had enough of this place."

*

THE LOCALS held Captain Lacoste in contempt, according to the man at Le Garage de Saint Somer, so Matt knew what to expect when the man turned up at one-thirty with a small forensic team and a photographer. Once the team had finished in the cabin an ambulance took the body of the guard away, but Matt and Zoé were told they had to remain.

"We are holding you in connection with the murder of Pierre Delois, monsieur," Captain Lacoste informed them. They were now back in the security cabin with their hands handcuffed behind their backs. "And you will be glad to know that I am sending a car to Madame Boissant's house. I would not like anyone else to die. There, what do you say to that?"

Henri had turned up safe and well, embarrassed at being caught out. Matt looked at his watch. While they'd been sitting around, waiting, anything could have happened to Sophie -- and the Heinmans were probably out of the country by now.

"I will tell you who is to blame for all this," said Matt angrily, managing to sound confident with his French. "Have you ever heard of Domestic Chemicals International? That small cylinder is from one of their wartime experiments."

Lacoste shrugged. "Now you want to tell me fairy tales, monsieur?"

"The gold is dangerous," said Matt.

"Ah, the gold, monsieur." The stark fluorescent light of the security cabin emphasized the lines on Captain Lacoste's sharp features. He poked at the gold cylinder cautiously.

"Dangerous," repeated Matt.

"And I believe you, monsieur." Lacoste nodded slowly. "If this is what the Dutchman found, you were right to warn my men not to open the cap. We do not always listen to murderers, but in this instance I think you are speaking sense."

The black plastic chair felt painfully hard. Matt shuffled himself to a more comfortable position. "So what are you going to do?" he asked. "Is someone coming from Calais to take charge?"

"Calais?" Lacoste responded contemptuously. "Calais does not control this area, monsieur. I have told the army to send an expert to search for explosives. Then we will take you down to the gendarmerie, and I can go home and get some sleep. But for now you will stay here because the army may have questions for you." Lacoste clearly wanted Matt and Zoé to feel totally to blame for his lost sleep.

Matt turned to Zoé and spoke quietly in English. "I need to phone Ken Habgood. He can fix up a lawyer for us."

"We are innocent," protested Zoé. "We do not need a lawyer."

"You don't understand how the police..." Matt broke off as Lacoste's radio burst into life. It sounded as though a whole bomb disposal squad was rushing to the site. Somewhere along the line the message must have got confused.

Lacoste wiped the inside of the cabin window with his sleeve and peered into the night sky. "Alphonse, Alphonse, be quick and move my car. Make sure there are no loose sheets of metal around. The army is sending a helicopter."

Tall Alphonse rushed to move the big Peugeot, but returned immediately. There were no keys in the car. A lengthy search of the security cabin revealed a bunch of keys under a notebook, within Matt's reach -- if he hadn't been in handcuffs. Captain Lacoste seemed to be remarkably careless over security.

But Alphonse need not have hurried. An hour later, Lacoste looked at his watch for the tenth time and cursed the army. Four o'clock in the morning? Did they think the gendarmes had nothing better to do than sit around?

Suddenly they all heard it: the heavy beat of rotors coming from the east, followed by a brilliant flash of blue as the helicopter's spotlight probed the ground ahead. The military machine hovered low over the pine trees at the edge of the site, before coming down to land in the floodlit compound amid a storm of paper.

Matt stood up, his hands handcuffed behind his back, and cleared the mist from the window with his shoulder. For a moment, he felt transported back to a time he had never known. A memory of an event he had never witnessed, but one he had heard about from his grandfather. This was the Nazi launch site, and tonight the German army was bringing in two American visitors by air. It was a stupid thought. In spite of his grandfather telling of a plane landing in the compound, dropping gently over the high wire, it was surely an impossible feat for a fixed wing aircraft.

The engine slowed until Matt could pick out the individual beats of the huge blades. As the high pitched whine from the turbine died, men in combat uniforms leapt out, accompanied by bellows of command from their sergeant.

Matt almost enjoyed the comedy of the proceedings. The man in charge was a supercilious army officer who introduced himself as Major Monet. He informed everyone that he had come to deal with the bombs. When Lacoste showed him the small gold cylinder, Matt guessed the man felt stupid, arriving in style for such a trivial find. He could sense anger below the surface.

Captain Lacoste shrugged in a convincing act of indifference. "C'est tout, Major Monet. That is all we have for you and your men. The Englishman here told us it is dangerous."

Matt realized that the blame was being shifted smartly. Now that there would be no praise for astute reporting of a highly dangerous substance, a deadly Nazi legacy, someone would be required to carry the can. And who better for the job than an Englishman being held for questioning on a charge of murder?

Major Monet held the gold cylinder casually.

"Matt, tell him it is not safe to touch," shouted Zoé.

The Major looked round in interest. "Mademoiselle?"

"Don't open it here." Matt felt tired. "There's something highly toxic inside. The Nazis left it here in the war."

Major Monet turned in disgust. "An Englishman tells the bomb disposal team how to do their work!" He lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke at Lacoste. "Perhaps we should make a full search of the site. Somehow, I doubt that your lazy gendarmes have done a very thorough job."

Matt knew the Major was trying to justify the trip. He also noticed the provocation in the statement, but Lacoste sounded bored.

"Very well, Major, search anywhere you wish. Perhaps your team of highly trained warriors will find Hitler's art collection as well as his gold."

By six-thirty it was getting light, and Major Monet came into the cabin empty handed. He took the gold cylinder from the table and turned to Lacoste who was finishing yet another cigarette.

"As this is all that has been found, we will be on our way." He glanced at Matt and Zoé. "Captain Lacoste will be receiving a bill from the army. My colonel does not take kindly to time wasters." He nodded to Lacoste. "Especially if they are captains of a tin-pot gendarmerie."

Lacoste yawned. "Your men have enjoyed their little game of soldiers?"

"We are off to get some breakfast," Monet announced. "We will pay a surprise visit to the military base near here and wake up the cooks. That will also be added to the bill."

The military bomb squad climbed on board the helicopter with far less vigor than they had shown on arrival. The machine rose in a cloud of dust into the dawn light, its spotlight stabbing at the early morning mist clinging to the flat fields. Then it was gone, leaving behind a bitter taste of earth from the disturbed ground.

Before it was even out of hearing, Lacoste ran across to answer the phone in his car. He returned slowly. "I have ... There is bad news. The body of an elderly woman has been discovered in a house..."

"Madame Boissant?" Zoé let out a sharp cry.

Matt looked at the Captain standing in the doorway of the cabin. It was obvious: Zoé had got it in one. Whatever respect Matt had felt for Lacoste was now gone.

Lacoste leaned against the doorframe, looking at the ground. "We need to identify the body, of course." He looked up at Zoé and shrugged. "There was nothing we could have done to help, mademoiselle."

Matt stared at Lacoste. The excuse was pathetic. "We told you to get someone there a long time ago, and you did nothing about it."

Captain Lacoste put his hands out, palms up, in a gesture of helplessness. "Do not look to me for comfort, monsieur. I am holding you responsible for the murder of Pierre Delois. You may hold me responsible for the death of an old woman if you wish. There is, however, one striking difference between our two cases. I am the captain of the gendarmes who is standing here free, and you are a prisoner wearing handcuffs. I hope you can appreciate the distinction."

"You might as well have killed her yourself!" Matt knew he was doing himself no favors by this outburst. "You're guilty of murder!"

"No, I am not guilty of the murder of Madame Boissant, monsieur." Lacoste strutted to the door of the small security cabin. "But we will soon have you on a charge of murder. I am going home to get some sleep. At ten o'clock in the morning you will appear before the magistrate to be formally charged. Au revoir, monsieur."

Matt turned to Zoé. "The first chance we get to escape, we take it. Okay? Whatever happens, I'm going after Jason Heinman and his father."

Chapter 20

MAJOR MONET strapped himself securely into the seat when his team returned to their helicopter at eight-thirty, following an unexpectedly good breakfast. "God save me from hysterical gendarmes," he muttered. It was humiliating to return to camp with one small cylinder. His men had spent two hours searching the site for more of the damn things. He turned the gold cylinder in his hands. He could hear liquid moving inside.

He put it into the bag on his lap. Carefully. This had been a frustrating night. Charlotte had sounded disappointed on the phone when he'd rung her from the nearby camp. Charlotte always provided a warm welcome, and he'd done without sex last night -- all because of some stupid over-paid and under-worked police captain who listened to his suspects.

Monet shouted into the mouthpiece of his headset. "Get us back to base as soon as you can!" Girard, his pilot, wasn't one of the best. He'd had trouble finding the site in the Pas-de-Calais on the way out. The fool had better have more luck at finding his way home in daylight.

"It wasn't much for an outing, was it, Major?" Giles, the sergeant charged with the practical duties of defusing unexploded bombs, grabbed the gold cylinder from the bag on his lap.

"Leave it, Sergeant!" shouted Monet.

Giles recognized the tone in the Major's voice. Major Monet acted like a frustrated old bachelor on these occasions.

Anyway, he wasn't the only one to have missed the comforts of bed last night. Giles had only been married seven months. It seemed at times that the Major was more concerned about his sexual gifts than his work. How often was it, anyway, that the group had to perform hours-of-darkness operations?

Giles disobeyed his Major and kept hold of the gold cylinder. If it had stood up to Monet's shaking, it couldn't be all that unstable. The cap was designed to be unscrewed. The helicopter banked sharply to port, the second turn in the past five minutes. Girard was probably lost again.

As soon as they were level, Giles twisted the cap. It turned slowly. Whoever had made this cylinder was an expert machinist. The fit was superb, and the fine gold thread was absolutely unharmed by the ground.

"Mon dieu, it smells like some randy old cat on the doorstep!" Giles waved the small cylinder under Monet's nose.

Monet unclipped his lap belt and rose angrily from his seat, aware that his men were watching. The helicopter banked again. He put his left hand out to steady himself, and accidentally knocked the cylinder from Giles' hand.

Girard turned away from the controls. "Will you pillocks all sit down, you're upsetting the balance!" he shouted, as the helicopter banked sharply to the right.

Monet couldn't understand his extreme reaction to this insolence, the violent rage he had no wish to contain. He'd never behaved like this in front of his men before. The pilot had exceeded his authority, and the imbécile would have to be taught a lesson. A lesson he would remember for the rest of his short life. He leaned forward and grabbed the controls.

*

FRANK HEINMAN felt secure at last. Waiting until after breakfast before leaving town had been a great idea. And now, with Jason driving the white rental car, and a tank full of gas, they could be with Simon Urquet in the Geneva office by mid afternoon.

An old truck, hand-painted in bands of gaudy green and orange, crawled up the hill in front, belching a trail of black smoke into the morning air. Jason blasted the horn and flashed his headlights but the truck refused to leave the white line.

Frank shook his head. There was plenty of time. They'd got out of Calais easily, mixing with the traffic just after eight. There was no sign of police roadblocks, but tearing past a hippie wagon on the wrong side of the highway with the horn blaring would draw attention to their Citroen.

"Take it easy, Jason." Frank twisted the DCI ring round on his middle finger. There was no glamour attached to wearing it. When his father had worn both signet rings, and he'd impatiently awaited his twenty-first birthday in 1944, it had been a magnificent object. An obsession. It was the promise of this ring a month before his birthday that had lured him to wartime France.

He stared at his hands, noticing the ugly lines and folds in the skin. The green stone in the signet ring glinted up at him. He turned it so he could no longer see the eye. The English soldier had destroyed his life in '44.

"Are you sure you want to go on the pike? We have to pay tolls." Jason overtook the hippie wagon on a downhill section, but had to slow as they approached a large rotary traffic island.

"They call their pikes autoroutes, and they're fast. Paris, then Geneva."

"The French cops could be looking for us. They wait at the toll booths."

Frank continued to look at his hands, saying nothing.

"Make up your mind, you old fool," snapped Jason. "I have to turn off. There's the sign."

"Go round once more. I'll take another look at the route map."

The brakes came on hard.

"What the hell are you playing at, boy?" Frank was flung forward against the seat belt. "You nearly put me through the windshield, you son of a bitch!"

Jason was already out of the car. "Did you see that? A chopper, twisting round in the air. It came down over there!"

A ball of flame rose from beyond the fields, forming a bright orange cloud against the morning sky.

Frank clambered from the car to join his son. "We can't afford to be witnesses. Let's get out of here." He heard tires sliding on the highway, followed by the deafening sound of crushing metal and breaking glass. He turned to see the old hippie truck embedded in the back of their Citroen. "We sure as dammit aren't going to get to Geneva in that," he muttered.

A family of dirt-ingrained travelers tumbled from the cab. A man with long greasy hair, and tattoos on his bare arms and chest, started to jabber something in French. Frank found it impossible to make out whether the man was angry or apologetic, but his conversation involved plenty of arm waving. A pregnant woman, in a red dress stained with food, joined the man while the three children waited by the side of the rotary, wailing.

A silver Audi sedan came down the hill and stopped behind the truck. The occupants seemed more interested in the large plume of smoke than the wrecked Citroen, and they ran across the field towards the smoke, followed by the hippy.

"Now what?" Frank needed his son's help at times like this.

"We get another car. The Audi's unlocked. We'll be gone before they get back."

As Jason jerked the driver's door open, a shout came from the field. The driver of the Audi had seen them and was now running back.

"We'll take the truck." Jason slammed the door of the Audi.

The three children stood in the way, clinging tearfully to their mother. Frank pushed them aside. The front of the truck was crumpled, with jagged edges of bare metal around the radiator grill. He could see a pool of black liquid forming under the front wheels, but the engine was still running.

"Jason! Where the hell are you now, boy?"

Jason emerged from the wrecked Citroen with their bags. "I'm not leaving these as evidence. And I had to get the..." He hesitated.

Frank grabbed the bags as his son threw them up into the cab. "Had to get the what?"

"It's okay, I'm coming."

However, Frank could see it was not okay. The woman let out a wild yell and began to tear at Jason's pants, pulling him from the open door as he climbed into the high cab. She was frantic, terrifyingly frantic. Jason kicked her sharply in the face and she fell backwards onto the highway.

The three kids clung to each other and made stupid whimpering noises. The man from the silver Audi was clearly alarmed by the angry confrontation. He shouted something abusive in German and drove off.

The black smoke rose more densely from the far end of the field, darkening the sky. Frank sat anxiously as Jason wrenched the truck into reverse. It juddered as it started to move, accompanied by a loud tearing noise as it ripped itself free from the wreck of the Citroen.

The long-haired traveler raced back across the field. By the time Jason managed to select forward gear, the man was ahead of the vehicle. He turned, his eyes wild as Jason swung the wheel right, onto the first exit from the rotary. The man leapt in front of the truck to block the way.

Frank reached over and grabbed at the wheel. "Look out, Jason, he's crazy."

Jason kept his foot hard on the gas pedal. The truck was slow but it managed to gather some speed.

The man, his face twisted in fury, leapt up and clung onto the tangled metal on the front grill. As he did so, a jagged bar of chrome stuck into his chest. His hands clawed for grip as he looked into the cab, shrieking something unheard above the thunder of the engine.

Frank watched as the man's fingers failed to find a firm hold and he slid relentlessly downwards, the sharp metal ripping a path up his bare skin until it reached his throat. As the metal dug deeper into his flesh the man flung his hands upwards and the chrome strip took his whole weight.

Then he was gone.

A knocking noise from the small window behind the cab made Frank Heinman turn in panic. Fists pounded on the glass. He'd not considered the possibility of other travelers being on board.

Chapter 21

HE HAD BEEN known as Sadique for at least fifteen of his twenty-nine years. The sadistic one. Even at primary school he'd earned the nickname La Bête, The Beast. Sometimes it was La Bête Sauvage, but the word Sadique said it all. He wore chains. He'd worn heavy steel chains for as long as he could remember. The drugs prevented his memory going back too far.

Convinced by a fellow esoteric traveler that he was a reincarnation of Attila the Hun, chains had quickly become an essential part of his image. Chains put fear into the public, and provided a ready weapon for defense and attack. Mostly attack. Sadique took pride in being the reincarnation of several barbaric historical figures. His mystical companion had been very persuasive. Friends told him his shaved head allowed him to take on the mantra of anyone he chose.

Sadique had three followers, three fellow mercenaries fighting for the devastation of European culture and the devastation of Western materialistic society. They enjoyed the destruction. Frustrated. Caged in the truck like tigers in a traveling circus. Performing tigers. Wild beasts.

The travelers were good to them. Jean Paul the driver was like a brother. Drugs; drink; food. Never enough, but sufficient to get through each day. And the family always there for support and comfort. Sadique loved the children. The family was like his own. Marie and Jean Paul gave him shelter and safety. They were good people. Good friends.

The sudden jolt had thrown him across the truck where he landed heavily on his three companions; and his companions were furious. They tried to hurt him. Sadique found it hard to hurt his friends. Sometimes the thought gave him pleasure, but it was a wrong thing to do. He often wondered about things being right and wrong. Marie and Jean Paul were right. Of all people, Marie and Jean Paul were the most right. And so were the three children.

Two strangers climbed into the cab. He pressed his face close to the thick glass. The men were going to steal his friend's wagon.

Mirage or reality? Was it important anyway? He stared as Jean Paul climbed on the front of the moving truck. It was difficult to sort out reality from the pleasure of fantasy.

The metal spike burst out through the top of his friend's head. Sensational. Unreal. Fantastic. Tonight he and Jean Paul would sit in the camp and talk about it. Share the experience. Share the drugs and the drink. Life was rich with rewarding events like this.

Jean Paul fell out of sight leaving a splash of blood across the windshield. Jean Paul's blood. The blood of a good friend. The blood of death. He shouted angrily and pointed through the window into the cab. Still dazed from their excess of dreams, his friends were unable to grasp the significance of the men in the cab. Then, prompted by his violent reaction, they joined in by hitting the glass.

Sadique unwound a length of chain from his black leather jacket. One blow and the glass would shatter, then he could reach in and wrap the chain round the neck of the man at the wheel. The tall man with the pony tail and the beard.

The chain would go all the way round the man's neck. Then he would pull it tight.

*

JASON TURNED in panic as the glass broke, and his action made the truck swerve. If his father hadn't grabbed the wheel they would have been in the ditch.

"Keep your eyes on the highway, boy."

Two hands came through the jagged glass, a length of chain held firmly between them. He watched his father reach down and pick up a jack handle from the filthy floor, then swing it up and over his shoulder, smashing the end into the tattooed knuckles. Blood oozed from the broken skin.

One more blow and the hands disappeared leaving the chain draped across Jason's shoulders. His father grabbed the chain, pulling it away from other hands that now reached through the glass -- bloodstained hands stretching out in an attempt to make contact.

"We need a hand-grenade to toss in there, Jason. Do you still have that Glock?"

"It's in the ditch at the missile site. Hell, Father, the French cops were coming."

The hands pushed a new length of polished chain through the broken rear window. His father struck at them again with the jack handle, leaving streaks of black grease and blood on the fingers.

"I told you not to go back to the site. This is your fault, boy."

Jason made the truck swerve sharply across the highway in an attempt to throw the occupants in the back off balance. The hands disappeared. "I can do better than a grenade," he muttered. "There's some Berlitzan oil in my jacket. Quick!"

The hands came through again, blood pouring from where the sharp splinters of glass had gashed the skin.

"Berlitzan oil? You've got Berlitzan oil?" His father hit at the hands savagely.

"Take the top off and throw it into the back." The chain flicked over his head, and strong hands started pulling it back until the links dug deeply into his windpipe. "Help me, damn you!"

He could say no more. Jason stamped hard on the brake pedal and the hands came forward, releasing the pressure of the chain on his throat. But the brakes were uneven, and the truck lurched to the left and crossed the highway, smashing into a tree. The small gold cylinder fell from his father's lap onto the floor.

Jason pushed the chain up over his head. "Hold your breath!" He snatched the cylinder from the floor and unscrewed the lid. For a moment he choked on the smell before tossing it backwards through the broken window into the rear of the truck. Then he joined his father out on the grass. He kicked the side of the old wagon. The paint scheme was ridiculous. Orange and green? What sort of fool painted a vehicle in such lurid colors?

From the inside came sounds of aggression, sounds like wild beasts tearing each other apart. Grunting, yelling, howling. Savage shrieks of terror. In blind fury Jason ripped at the side panels, filled with frustration at being deprived of the pleasure of fighting his enemy.

He turned as his father pulled at his shoulder. The stupid old man had asked for trouble all through his life. He bent down to pick up the jack handle that had fallen from the cab, ready to smash his father's skull.

A sudden pain exploded across the back of his head and he fell forward onto the long grass.

*

CAPTAIN LACOSTE flung open the door of the detention room and shouted at Matt to wake up.

Matt turned over on the narrow bed and looked at his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock. He'd managed two hours' sleep since being locked up separately from Zoé. He guessed that Lacoste hadn't even managed an hour. From the senior gendarme's mood, it was clear that an hour was considerably less sleep than he needed. Zoé stood with Lacoste, no longer wearing handcuffs. She looked relieved to see Matt and ran forward to hug him.

"Last night, I did not know if you were guilty of murder," said Lacoste. "But now the charges are extremely serious. Stand up!"

"You won't let me phone for un avocat," complained Matt, sitting on the edge of the narrow bed hardly awake. "So I am not saying anything." He stood up slowly and held Zoé tightly.

"You will need a good man to save you now, monsieur. The bomb you placed on board the helicopter did its work."

Matt woke up. "Did you say bomb?"

"Ah, so the Englishman's French is suddenly not so good." Captain Lacoste seemed to be rejoicing in the news he brought.

"I understand you, monsieur," Matt protested in French. "But I do not understand what you mean about a bomb."

"It was a clever trick, monsieur." Lacoste nodded to himself. "I have to admit it was extremely clever. The little stick of explosive looked so innocent. Was it intended for the gendarmes?"

"It was innocent!" protested Matt.

Captain Lacoste shook his head. "Then why did you tell us it was dangerous?"

Matt had seen all this before -- from the other side. This man was trying to lure him into saying something incriminating, and he was pretty well incriminated to start with. If only he could contact Ken.

The door to the corridor was partly open but Captain Lacoste blocked any chance of escape. Matt considered putting Lacoste's reactions to the test, but even if he got away, Zoé would be left behind. These gendarmes were vindictive. Last night, Lacoste said he and Zoé were guilty of murdering the guard. Now, it seemed, the accusation had been a bluff, an excuse to hold them for questioning in daylight. The accusation of a bomb might be another bluff, but clearly Lacoste wasn't about to release them.

Matt thought about Major Monet flying off with the small gold cylinder in his hands. Something must have happened to the helicopter. It couldn't have been the gold cylinder. The small cylinders didn't contain explosives -- not if his grandfather had been right. The mad Dutchman and the crowd were affected by breathing the contents. There'd been no report in the papers of an explosion.

Matt kept his arm round Zoé's shoulders. "When are we going to be allowed a phone call?" he demanded.

"Monsieur, you will be facing charges in front of the magistrate at ten o'clock. I am not sure yet what they will be exactly."

Lacoste handcuffed them both to the steel legs of the table and slammed the door shut.

"It's not the Bastille," Matt whispered. "As soon as I can phone Ken Habgood, he'll fix us up with legal help. It's all so stupid. But be careful what you say. This room will be bugged and they're sure to be listening."

The door opened. A young gendarme entered with an even younger man in clerical black wearing the collar of a priest. Matt stared at them and shook his head in disbelief. "What's this then? A fancy dress parade?" They must take him for a fool.

"Monsieur?" asked the gendarme.

Man nodded towards the boy in the black suit and clerical collar. "What is he wearing? Something left over from the Christmas party?"

The gendarme tutted. "This is Father Alban. He has..."

"...Come to read me my last rites," interrupted Matt. "Thank you, but I'm in no mood for games."

The gendarme turned abruptly and left the room.

"Do you have something you wish to say?" asked the schoolboy in the black suit.

"Plenty," responded Matt angrily. "But I'd rather say it to your captain."

"My captain, monsieur? You mean my bishop?"

Matt sighed. The world was going crazy. "Let me put it simply. This place is wired for sound. You get me to confess, then you pull out your warrant card and book me."

"Confession is good, monsieur."

"Not if you haven't done it."

"You do not believe I am a real priest." A look of realization spread across the youthful face. "You think I am one of Lacoste's men in disguise."

"Of course."

"Oh, monsieur, you are too suspicious. I know all about you. One of my parishioners talked to me after early mass this morning. Madame Sophie Boissant. She is staying with her sister Martha. She has told me about the two Americans, and how you think they killed your grandfather in England. You are innocent of the crime, I think." He raised his eyebrows as though waiting for confirmation.

"Too right we're innocent. And you're lying. Madame Boissant is dead -- thanks to Lacoste's incompetence."

"You are wrong, monsieur. Sophie Boissant has recently found peace with God, but she is not with him yet. I can assure you she is very much alive."

The name of Father Alban seemed familiar. But even if this turned out to be one of Lacoste's men pretending to be the local priest, it wouldn't hurt to have their account recorded on the tape that was sure to be running. Matt took hold of Zoé's hand and outlined their story.

The young man shook his head when Matt finished. "Monsieur, I swear on the name of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, that I am not one of Lacoste's men. I am exactly as I appear to be. I am a priest. So tell me, do you have any suggestions as to how I might help?"

Matt recalled how Lacoste had left his keys on the table while waiting for the helicopter to arrive. Perhaps the man was always careless. He shook his hands and made the handcuffs rattle against the steel leg of the table. "I think the chief has the key to our problems on his desk."

Father Alban looked blank.

"The key," repeated Matt, looking down to his handcuffs. The French word clé had the same double meaning as it did in English. Hopefully anyone listening would think he meant the solution rather than a physical key. "He may have the key to our problems on his desk."

The priest sighed. "I have to say that there is nothing I can do to help you. Perhaps we will meet again at the court of the magistrate."

Matt sighed. "Don't bother to waste your time. We're not pleading guilty. We have absolutely nothing to confess."

The boyish priest opened the door and stood there. "We all have things to confess, monsieur." He left, with Matt feeling angrier than before the visit.

He and Zoé sat together in silence. A few minutes later, the young gendarme knocked at the door before kicking it open. Matt wondered why he should have bothered to knock.

"You are both to come with me," he said in a voice that sounded over-dramatic. Perhaps he'd been taking lessons from Lacoste.

Matt held back. Experience told him to be cautious. "Where?"

"Le toilet." The remark seemed to amuse the young man.

"Not before time," said Matt. "And we want some coffee."

"But of course. Coffee, a baguette, some fruit."

"Is that a joke?" asked Matt, standing between the guard and Zoé. He was determined to protect her from these familiar scenes of police procedure.

"No joke, monsieur. Captain Lacoste wants to talk to you about the murder of an old woman. You will miss your petit déjeuner if you do not hurry. The Captain will not be kept waiting."

He wouldn't either. Matt knew that the young gendarme was right.

They were taken to a large room and given lukewarm coffee and two pieces of very fresh French bread. A portion of apricot jam lay in a sticky mess in one corner of the tray. The confiture must have been the young gendarme's idea of fruit.

Lacoste sat and smoked, watching while they ate. "I am wondering how many murder charges I can stick on you," he said, almost as much to himself as to Matt and Zoé.

"You're too slow to understand what's going on," snapped Matt. "I insist that you let us use a phone."

"Insist?" The Captain stood up. Even at his full height he failed to look imposing, but his sharp tongue more than made up for what he lacked in inches. "Monsieur, you will regret speaking to me like that. The case against you is becoming more serious by the minute. You may be interested to know that my men made a small mistake in the identification of the body of Madame Boissant. I think perhaps we will be charging you with involvement in the murder of her neighbor. In fact, I am sure we can involve you." He blew a lungful of smoke across the room, adding in a tone of mockery, "Monsieur!"

"You mean Sophie Boissant is still alive?" Zoé put her hands to her face. "How did her neighbor die?"

"It seems she heard someone knocking at the empty house next door and came downstairs to investigate. Neighbors on the other side heard the disturbance, but did not realize what had happened until this morning. But it is of no consequence. We will charge you with the murder."

"We were being held by your men at the construction site when it happened," protested Matt.

Lacoste raised his eyebrows. "Records can be flexible."

Matt glanced at the gendarme standing by the door. The Captain intended to fix up a false charge in front of a junior officer -- and the young man just grinned.

They would both do it, and probably not for the first time. Collusion. Lacoste would do it for vindictiveness; the young gendarme for progression.

Chapter 22

HE TRIED to turn away from the light. His head hurt and he felt sick.

"Wake up, Jason."

Someone leant over him, pulling at his clothes. Hell, it was his father. Then he remembered. The green and orange truck. The wild creatures inside. The man with the chains. He struggled to get to his feet, panic pushing him up, but his legs were powerless. "The Berlitzan oil! We used the Berlitzan oil!"

His father leaned down. "You were a fool to have that stuff with you."

Jason closed his eyes and tried to swallow. His throat hurt where the chain had dug in. "I save your life, and all you can do is moan. Who hit me?"

"I did."

No apology; no explanation. Jason got his eyes fully open. "I told you not to breathe the stuff."

"I didn't breathe it, but you did. You tried to rip the panels off the truck with your bare hands. You wanted to kill those animals."

Jason touched his throat. "It hurts like hell."

"Have you got any more?" his father demanded.

He couldn't help it. He hesitated.

His father grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him roughly. "Bury it here, boy. We came to France to get rid of Berlitzan oil -- not to start making a collection of the stuff."

He pushed his father away and found he could stand. "One hell of a crack you gave me. What did you use?"

His father kicked a heavy stick lying in the grass. "You were mad. Really mad. You picked up the jack handle. You were going to kill me."

"Yeah?" He smiled. "My eyesight's blurred, but I feel fine. I can remember being mad with you."

His father pointed to the truck. "It must be full of fumes in there. I think they've killed each other, but keep away."

"The rest of the oil is still in the cab. I promised some to Aziz."

"There's no way Aziz is having Berlitzan oil."

Jason stared between the trees, trying to focus on the hippy wagon. From the highway, it looked as though it had been parked normally. The extensive damage to the front would not be apparent to any passing driver, but the large patch of engine oil on the ground said it was going no further.

"Don't give Berlitzan oil to Hammid Aziz, boy." His father sounded as angry as ever. "How many cylinders are there?"

"Nine. No, eight. We've just used one."

"Eight! You got eight frigging cylinders?"

From inside the truck came a sound of someone moving. Jason turned. He'd not thought about it before, but this was how it would always be. The contestants would fight to the end, but there would have to be one survivor. Like a Destruction Derby of old automobiles, the end would come, but one would remain alive. Always someone left.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, but the display had been broken and the phone was dead. "Aziz will help us ----

in return for a couple of cylinders of Berlitzan oil. I vote we get the hell out of here."

As they turned to leave, Jason glanced back to see a large figure scramble through the broken glass into the cab of the truck, holding a chain. A Volvo station wagon slowed as it approached them. The man driving wound down the window while the woman passenger waved a route map excitedly.

"Excuzez moi!" the man called across the wide clearing. "Can either of you speak English?"

Jason shook his head. He wasn't going back. The couple might recognize him later.

The Englishman took the route map from the woman. "It's all right," he shouted, "I'll ask in the lorry. There's a chap in there with a chain. He ... he seems to be in some sort of trouble."

Jason and his father hurried out of sight.

The woman's scream was loud enough to make the rooks fly out from the trees. The long, piercing cries for help ended abruptly. Jason turned to his father. "I guess we can have the Volvo."

They waited fifteen minutes and returned warily. Jason kicked at the motionless bodies of the Englishman and the woman. Then he noticed that the back door of the truck was open.

His father looked around. "How about we find a pay phone and speak to Urquet again? He's the best corporate lawyer in America. He'll do anything to protect Americans."

"Especially DCI Americans," added Jason dryly. "You've got the whole world in your damn pocket. I'm going to the Volvo."

"Don't leave me, Jason."

Jason turned. "Watch that truck, and be prepared to run like hell if anything so much as moves."

A sudden gust of wind shook the oaks, the rustle of the jagged leaves masking any sounds that might be coming from the truck. The blue Volvo stood enticingly with the passenger door wide. The keys were still in the ignition. Jason turned away from the two bodies. The English driver and his passenger had come to the end of their holiday thirty miles short of the Channel Tunnel.

"We can't leave our bags in the truck, Jason. They'll get us identified."

Jason noticed his father sounded tired and strained, and for a moment he almost felt sorry for the old fool. "I'll fetch them. You jump in the station wagon."

"Let me help. I'm ready for anything now."

"You're not ready for that maniac. Okay, walk slowly, and it's everyone for himself if there's anyone still in the truck. I'm not hanging around for some geriatric to keep up."

"Or behind the trees. He might be behind the trees."

"Sure, he might be anywhere."

They reached into the truck and found their luggage in the cab covered in splinters of glass from the shattered rear window. Without a word they lifted the tailgate of the Volvo and placed it on top of the owner's camping gear. His father was already in the passenger seat by the time Jason got round to the driver's door.

"Get the hell out of here, Jason. It sounds like the cops are coming. I can hear a siren."

Jason heard it, too. He started the engine and revved it until it screamed. The automatic drive engaged with a thump. His anxiety to get away made the rear wheels spin wildly on the damp earth.

"Back off on the gas, boy!" His father's eyes were wild.

"Leave it. I know what I'm doing."

The wheels spun again, digging deeply into the soft ground. Then suddenly the tires bit and the large Volvo lurched forward.

Chapter 23

MATT WAS fuming, although Zoé seemed resigned to her handcuffs. She winked at him as they sat on a massive wood and metal bench in the cool passageway of the magistrate's court.

Lacoste said they were being taken before the magistrate at ten o'clock to face a murder charge. Matt didn't believe him. If they were facing a murder charge, security would be much tighter. Lacoste was probably trying to frighten them into making an admission in front of the magistrate. The gendarme who brought them to the courthouse had handcuffed them to the metal armrests, and sat between them looking bored.

Attaching handcuffs to the ornamental ironwork was probably against orders, but it allowed the gendarme a certain amount of freedom while keeping the prisoners secure. It looked like a long established custom, judging by the worn paint on the substantial metal bars. The high entrance hall inside the Palais de Justice was painted a gentle shade of green, making the old stone walls feel chilly. Matt sighed wearily. Lacoste was still refusing them the use of a phone. Perhaps they could attempt something useful -- like trying to escape.

The young priest, Father Alban, entered the hall, almost running in his haste to join them. "Monsieur, mademoiselle, you remember what I said to you at the gendarmerie?"

"That you wouldn't help us," Matt reminded him angrily. The man was too dim-witted to understand something as simple as a direct hint over a key. "And I told you not to waste your time here," he added. He glanced up at the large clock above the stairs. Eight minutes to go.

A woman in a short black skirt pinned a notice to a green baize board. The gendarme who was sitting between them checked their handcuffs and turned to the priest.

"Keep an eye on these two for me, Father." He walked across for a chat with the woman.

Father Alban leaned forward as soon as they were alone. "I am getting you both out of here." His eyes were bright with excitement.

"What do you have in mind? An escape tunnel?"

"There is no need for sarcasm, monsieur. First a security guard is shot, and then one of my elderly parishioners is murdered during the night. I think that Captain Lacoste is not looking for the people responsible. You are a detective, monsieur, and I charge you with the duty of bringing the criminals to justice. I hope I make myself clear. I am putting my future with the Church on the line for you. Do not let me down."

Matt felt exasperated. "You've left it too late. I tried to get you to help earlier -- while we still had time."

"I understood what you meant, monsieur, but you did not understand my reply," the priest said quietly. "My exact words were, 'I have to say that there is nothing I can do to help you.' But that did not mean I would not do it. If I had replied to your suggestion of the key, Captain Lacoste would have heard me on his listening devices. Priests are not naïve. I have just come from Lacoste's office, and I am glad to say he was not there."

Father Alban reached into his jacket pocket.

"He was not there, but his keys were on his desk, just as you told me. That man is so careless with his possessions. It is the large black Peugeot in the yard outside." The young priest clutched a ring holding several keys, one of which had a car immobilizer.

Even as Father Alban said it, Matt felt his stomach leap. Was it worth risking further charges? Yes, of course it was, if he wanted justice. He spoke in a whisper. "I am sorry if I sounded rude. I am tired. Very tired." He turned to Zoé. "We're going to walk out of here."

"And our handcuffs?" she asked.

"Ah, yes, it is the little key on the ring," whispered Father Alban. "I will release you."

He put what looked like a simple suitcase key into Matt's and then into Zoé's handcuffs, and they snapped free from their wrists.

The boyish priest nodded his head in understandable relief. "Start towards the door and take it easy -- very easy. I will cause a diversion. Your gendarme has taken a fancy to the young woman at the notice board, so I shall admonish him for unclean thoughts. I have never before thought of lust having a positive side." Father Alban smiled to himself as though the joke was a private one.

The gendarme was now laughing loudly with the woman.

The double doors to the courtyard were already open to allow air to circulate in the hall. It was a strange sensation to know there was freedom ahead. Matt couldn't bring himself to turn round. The gendarme might still be at the notice board receiving an ear bashing from Father Alban for impure thoughts. Or he might be drawing his handgun.

"Walk slowly, Zoé. Let's look as though we're waiting to be called as witnesses."

The doors led into a large courtyard used as a car park for the gendarmes and court officials. The sudden rise in temperature struck Matt immediately.

But Zoé began to shiver. "Now where?"

The courtyard had an opening onto the street, with high metal gates that were open. A gendarme stood by them to make sure no one unauthorized entered. Perhaps he didn't bother to check who was leaving. Matt could see a large black Peugeot in the row of cars parked against the wall of the courthouse.

He nodded to Zoé. "There's Lacoste's car."

"We are going to steal it?" asked Zoé in disbelief.

He wondered if this was a serious question. A better question might be whether the car key fitted Lacoste's Peugeot.

The gendarme at the gates was watching a woman in a tight dress on the other side of the street. She bent down to do something to her shoe. Father Alban would probably see this as yet another positive side to lust, and certainly the timing was perfect.

"Open the driver's door and slide across," Matt whispered.

Apart from the gendarme at the gate, the courtyard was deserted.

Matt slipped into the driver's seat and put the key in the ignition. It turned, and the engine started. He looked up. The gendarme was still appraising the woman.

A police car turned in through the gates and stopped, blocking the exit. Matt guessed that if he and Zoé stayed put, the gendarme on duty probably wouldn't notice there was anyone in the Captain's Peugeot.

"What are we waiting for?" Zoé sounded anxious as she turned round in her seat. "Be quick, they are closing the gates!"

The police car moved into the yard. The closing gates called for immediate action. "We'll crash them, like I did to get out of Tom Grieves' yard."

Someone must have raised the alarm. They could hear shouting, and suddenly a black-suited figure on a bicycle shot through the narrow gap. Father Alban was also making his escape. Matt released the handbrake and hit the automatic transmission into reverse. As he floored the accelerator, the car shot back. There was no longer any point in stealth.

They got to the gates going backwards at high speed. The ornamental steel gave way as the Peugeot crashed through, the car going almost too fast for Matt to control. An approaching van sounded its horn, a long blast of aggravation as it snaked in the road under heavy braking.

"Look out, Matt!"

One of the gates became entangled with the Chief's Peugeot and fastened itself to the rear of the car. Matt selected forward drive and the gate dragged behind in a screeching stream of orange sparks. As the speed increased it suddenly broke free.

"What happened to the van?"

Zoé had been watching all the time and she turned back in excitement. "The van, it has run over the gate. It is stuck across the road, and the police cars, they cannot get past."

Matt kept his foot flat on the floor.

"Where are we going?" asked Zoé anxiously.

"Not far in this." The magistrate's court was on the edge of Saint Somer, and soon they'd be in open countryside. "We'll stop somewhere out of sight of the main road."

A voice on the radio made them jump. The gendarmes were reporting four major events. The first was the theft of the Captain's Peugeot within the past two minutes, being driven by two criminals. A priest on a bicycle was also a wanted man. There was an update on the death of a hippy traveler an hour ago, involving an abandoned white Citroen car. The fourth major event was a helicopter crash at the same time. The theft of the Peugeot seemed to be receiving priority.

Matt felt his heart racing. A narrow track led into the woods and he swung the Peugeot down it. A few yards along, the track turned sharply right.

The radio burst into sound again. Their description was perfect, even the color of their clothes. Lacoste must have been making notes during the interview. The young priest seemed to have made good his getaway on the bicycle. This news was followed by a description of two men wanted for questioning about a smashed white Citroen.

"Mon dieu, that sounds like the 'Einmans," said Zoé.

Two police cars, sirens blaring, shot past the end of the track. Matt started the engine and drove a little further down, to get deeper into the trees. "We have to stop them getting back to America. Any ideas?"

Zoé found a large scale map in the door pocket of the Peugeot and began to trace the route of their escape with her finger. "If the 'Einmans are hiding in a hotel we could phone the national police and hope they are smarter than Lacoste and his gendarmes."

"I could make a citizen's arrest if we can find them. Can you do such a thing in France?"

Zoé shook her head. "I do not know. Perhaps Monsieur 'Einman still has a gun. Ah, I can see where we are on the map. This track has what you call a dead end."

He leaned across for a look, and could feel the warmth of her body and detected a slight smell of sweat from her fear. On the map he could see several houses marked in the area, but nothing on this track. They should be safe for an hour or so. "We'll get out of this somehow."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I do not fancy twenty years in a tiny cell -- without you."

He could see tears in her eyes. Matt reckoned they were tears of relief. Quickly he returned the kiss, but right now he had more on his mind than romance. He snatched the phone from its cradle. "Lacoste owes us a call. If this is working, I'm going to speak to Ken." He switched it on and punched in the numbers, including the UK country code.

Within seconds the phone rang at Habgood Securities.

"Listen, Ken, this is Matt. We're in trouble."

Ken gave a hollow laugh. "As usual. What do you want me to do?"

"Can you get over to France with two blank passports?"

Ken laughed again. "And end up on the wrong side of the law? You've got to be joking."

"It's serious," said Matt urgently. "We're wanted for murder. Zoé is convinced she's going to end up behind bars, and..."

"Zoé behind a bar? She's attractive, Matt. Good money in pub work."

Matt felt annoyed by the flippant response. "Ken, you've got to help us."

"Tell me what's happened."

"My grandfather's been murdered. He..."

"Hey, kiddo, was that your granddad at the South Memorial? I didn't realize. Hell of a story. All that blood and..."

"Ken, I know what happened. And I think I know who did it."

"So why aren't you back here sorting things out?"

"Because the murderer is over here. Or he may be. I'm not sure. It's all to do with Domestic Chemicals. I need more info on them."

"Louise Grantham dropped something into the office on her way to work this morning. It's marked confidential."

"Open it, Ken. Louise may have found something that will help us dish the dirt on DCI."

"Is that DCI in America, or DCI in Switzerland?"

"DCI is a New York company."

"They've got a base in Geneva."

"Who says so?"

"I've ... read it on their labels. United States of America and Switzerland."

"Have you been looking at Louise's notes?" inquired Matt suspiciously.

"Of course not." Ken's denial came quickly. "It's common knowledge. I'll open the envelope and read it all out to you."

"You're lying, Ken. You've been through the lot. Tell me about DCI."

"You remember the man who called on me? Miller."

"He had a car accident, Ken. Look, I..."

"I've seen his picture in the DCI literature Louise downloaded."

"I didn't want her to register."

"She says she did it through an American contact."

"That's something. So who is Miller?"

"The chief executive officer. Bit of a coincidence, I'd say."

"It's no coincidence. Just tell me what else is in Louise's envelope."

"I'm not sure I should be interfering with Domestic Chemicals' private business."

"Do it to get your own back on Miller. He made a fool of you in the office."

"Not exactly a fool." Ken hesitated as the accusation sunk in. "The way I see it he..."

"He made a complete fool of you, Ken. You'll never live this one down at your club if you don't settle the score." He winked at Zoé. "I don't want anyone getting a fix on this phone. I'll call you back in fifteen minutes."

"Better make it thirty."

Matt replaced the phone in its cradle.

"Louise?" asked Zoé, raising her eyebrows. "Again?"

He shrugged and gave a strained smile.

Zoé seemed to brighten up. "Now what? I do not think Ken is going to be much help."

"That's because you've only met him once. He's a pro. I sometimes needle him a bit, but he knows what he's doing, all right."

"Perhaps." Zoé sounded far from convinced. "Anyway, the 'Einmans, they could be going back to England. We need the police to watch the ferry crossings and the Channel Tunnel."

"They should have started doing that last night. But if they were driving that white Citroen, they must still be in the area. Ken says DCI has an office in Geneva. That changes everything."

"It is important?"

"It's where the Heinmans will run for safety. They can fly out to the States from Switzerland."

"They would never be allowed to leave Geneva." Zoé started to put her lipstick on.

"Never be allowed?" Matt shook his head. "You don't have a clue about the clout of an international firm like DCI."

"They are above the law?"

"They can buy enough time to escape justice."

"So we go to Geneva after them?"

"Not in Lacoste's car. We'd be picked up in five minutes. That young man you met at the garage, doesn't he live near here?"

"Philippe?" Zoé licked her fingers and smoothed her eyebrows.

"His brother sells second-hand cars. He offered you a road test."

"Oui." Zoé blushed.

"Then take him up on his offer."

"Not now." Zoé shook her head in bewilderment. "This is serious, Matt."

"Look in your purse and find the card he gave you. Please."

Zoé rummaged through the contents. In her hand she held a small printed card from the Garage de Saint Somer. On the back was a hand-written address. She studied the large scale map and gave a little cry of excitement. "It is less than a kilometer."

"Let's walk there and borrow one of his cars."

"Stay here," she instructed him. "I am French so it is better if I go alone. I will not be long."

"Hold it, Zoé!" He reached out to stop her leaving but Zoé jumped from the Peugeot and ran along a muddy path through the trees.

After thirty minutes, Matt picked up the car phone and pressed the redial button. "How's the reading going, Ken?"

"I've gone through Louise's papers. Domestic Chemicals isn't that big a company. More mouth than manpower, I'd say. The president is Jason B. Heinman, and Frank B. Heinman is the ex-president who still works for DCI part time. There's a photo of each of them."

Matt looked anxiously down the track. Every gendarme in France would be hunting for Lacoste's car by now. "I've got an idea."

"Nice clear line, Matt. Where are you?"

"It's a high quality mobile phone, Ken," Matt explained curtly. "In a police car. Do you have the number for DCI in Geneva?"

"You're going to phone them?"

"I'll pretend I'm in the New York office, and tell DCI Geneva I need to know when the Heinmans are expected in Switzerland."

"What makes you think they'll tell you?"

"I'm going to ask when they're expected, not if. I can work out if the Heinmans are expected by the answer. I can do a reasonable job of sounding like an American."

"I remember when you tried that one on me last Christmas. I can't see them falling for it any more than I did. Is Zoé with you?"

He laughed at Ken's denial. He had fallen for it one hundred percent. "Zoé's gone to see a friend."

"What sort of a friend? You sound in a panic, kiddo."

"Dead right I sound in a panic," agreed Matt. "She went off ages ago to borrow a car, and for all I know the gendarmes have picked her up. Why do you ask about Zoé?"

"Remember the Jackson case? We hired an actress for that one. She pretended to be a pharmacist and found out everything."

"Zoé isn't an actress."

"She could learn."

"What, here in the car?"

"It's your problem, kiddo, not mine. I'm safe and cozy in my little old office. You're the one on the run."

"I suppose ... Yes, why not? Zoé pretended to be a reporter when she phoned Sister Ewing at the South Memorial."

"Don't forget to tell her to act the bully. People always give things away when they're under pressure."

"Do me a favor. Tell the Trinity Green cop shop about the Heinmans, and show them the photo of Frank Heinman in the package Louise brought round."

"The ex-president? Are you going crazy, Matt?"

"Don't argue. Get the police to take the picture to the South Memorial and see if anyone recognizes him as the padre. If they do, get the police to set up a border alert."

"I've got it," said Ken, although he didn't sound particularly enthusiastic.

"Someone's coming." A dark green Renault 25 was bouncing its way down the track. The headlights flashed briefly. "It's Zoé. She's wearing a bright yellow headscarf. And there's someone with her."

Zoé pulled up alongside the Peugeot.

"It's Sophie," Matt explained on the phone. "Sophie Boissant is here with Zoé."

"You certainly attract the women, Matt. Have you done with me?"

"For the moment. Don't forget to tell the police what I've just told you. And do it straight away. As soon as we've dumped Sophie, we're going down to Geneva."

"You're not doing this on your own?"

"It's a risk, but it may be our only chance of catching up with the Heinmans."

"And what are you going to do when you find them?"

"You tell me."

"See, I told you not to rush into things without a plan."

"Just help me, will you?"

"Ram their car and make such a fuss that the police get called. It's your chance to tell them everything, while the Heinmans are sitting by the side of the road. With any luck, the British police will have alerted Interpol by then."

"I like it, Ken. The Heinmans might have incriminating papers on them, or even some of their poison gas."

"It's not my best plan ever, kiddo, but it's something to get you started. Try not to get arrested again. Once you're in custody, you're powerless. Maybe you'll think of something better on the way down."

"How do I find DCI in Geneva?"

"You're in luck. Louise has come up with a map. Their offices are in the center of the city, on the edge of some big lake." Ken gave the address and phone number. "Watch yourself, kiddo."

Matt replaced the phone in its cradle and examined the old green Renault. "Where on earth did you find it, Zoé? It's a heap."

"Say thank you," said Zoé. "I smiled nicely and Philippe's brother gave it to me for a test drive."

"To Geneva?"

Zoé shrugged. "I did not say how far I wanted to go. I found Sophie at her sister's house. She is coming with us."

Matt started to protest.

"No, Matt, Sophie's life is in danger. We must leave the Peugeot of Captain Lacoste here. The gendarmes they are everywhere."

"Let's hope they don't recognize us," said Matt.

"I will do the driving. That is why Sophie lent me this headscarf."

"It doesn't suit you."

Zoé ignored the observation. "Hurry up and get in, Matt. You will have to lie on the back seat under the covers, and Sophie will have to lie with you."

Matt shook his head. "All the way to Switzerland -- in this? Look at the state it's in. It's even worse than the Mini. I hope it's got breakdown cover."

"It is a good car," insisted Zoé. "Get in."

"I want you to make a phone call before we go." He pointed to the mobile in the Peugeot. "To DCI in Geneva."

Everything depended on Zoé getting this call right. He ran through the plan, making sure Zoé understood exactly what she had to do. He leaned into Lacoste's car and switched off the police radio. It wouldn't do to have urgent voices interrupting the call to DCI.

"Speak in English, not French," he reminded her. "And whatever they say, don't take no for an answer."

Zoé smiled. "The determined English pharmacist \-- that is me." She raised a finger as the phone was answered. "'Ello, I have to contact Monsieur F. B. 'Einman urgently ... Yes, I know he is not with you, but I have an important message for him. Put me through to a private secretary immediately."

She breathed out heavily and waited for the secretary to answer.

"'Ello," said Zoé, raising her voice so it sounded confident. "This is the pharmacist of Monsieur F. B. 'Einman in London. There has been a serious problem with Monsieur 'Einman's medication ... Yes, it could be extremely serious in view of his age. I have to contact him immediately. He told me he was going to Geneva with the company president. ... Yes, that is what he said. So I thought ... Excuse me, but surely you are not taking responsibility for ... You are right, you cannot possibly make medical decisions like that. If Monsieur 'Einman becomes seriously ill because you ... Ah yes, that is good."

Zoé caught Matt's eye, but she was so taken up in acting the part that she didn't even smile. "How soon until he arrives? ... It is most important I know exactly when you will be contacting Monsieur 'Einman about his medicine ... Who? Monsieur Urquet? Yes, of course you must tell Monsieur Urquet about it. I do not think you realize the implications of a delay."

Matt listened in astonishment. He guessed she'd do the job well, but Zoé was so involved in playing the part that she seemed to have actually become the pharmacist. She knew when to snap at the secretary with exactly the right amount of impatience.

Zoé stopped talking and there seemed to be silence at the other end. Then she started speaking again. "All right, if you are sure he will be with you this evening I will send a fax ... No, no problem now, thank you ... Yes, and you have a nice day, too."

Matt clenched both fists and laughed out loud. "You were brilliant, Zoé. You hardly sounded French." He took the phone and punched in a few random numbers. "I don't want to make it too easy for Lacoste to find out who we've been phoning. Now, tell me about it."

"The American secretary in Geneva, she believed it all," said Zoé, smiling at last. She gave a little giggle to relieve the tension. "There is someone called Simon Urquet working at the Geneva office. He is, I think, the most senior man there, but he is only visiting from New York. The secretary spoke to him and he told her to get me to send a fax ready for the 'Einmans."

Matt nodded. "Sounds like father and son are expected."

"And now?"

"We don't bother messing about with a fax. We concentrate on getting there first -- and hope Urquet is a man with a conscience."

Zoé frowned. "Why did you say I hardly sounded French? I was speaking English."

"You sounded very efficient." Matt decided to change the subject. He'd not mentioned Zoé's heavy French accent before, and had no intention of starting now. "Tell me, were all the cars museum pieces?" He kicked the front tire of the large Renault.

"This was his best," said Zoé. "In a car like this you will discover just how big this country is. You English come over here with your little road maps and think you can get from one side of France to the other in two or three hours."

"I know how big France is," Matt said. "I only hope this fossil holds together for the journey. It's got a local department registration, so we're probably breaking the law by taking it out of the area."

"Are you going to thank me for the Renault or not?" demanded Zoé. "I went to a lot of trouble to get it for you."

Sophie Boissant sat in the back of the old car with a perplexed look on her face. "We are going somewhere?" she inquired politely.

Matt opened the rear door and took hold of her arm. "Come on, Sophie, we have to climb under the blankets and hide."

Zoé turned round from the driving seat. "All the way to Geneva," she added.

Sophie coughed politely and tapped Zoé on the shoulder. "Excuse me for saying so, mademoiselle, but I think it would be a mistake for me to be covered over with the young man for the next few hours -- pleasant though it would be. If I sit with you in the front I will make the car less suspicious. Whatever is happening around here, two women on their own are not going to be stopped."

"That's good," said Matt. He let Sophie into the front then stood in the track listening for police sirens. There had been nothing for the past few minutes.

"Tell me, Zoé," he could hear Sophie saying, "you like Matthieu. But I think the two of you are not lovebirds."

Matt stayed where he was.

"Lovebirds? Of course not," he overheard Zoé answer.

"You like Matthieu very much, I think. But there is a problem, which is why you hold back."

"I already have someone. In Clermont Ferrand. I am helping Matt, and that is all."

"No, Zoé, that is not all. You are in a dilemma over two men, n'est ce pas? You know you have to make a big decision in your life."

"What sort of big decision?"

"Only one man is right for you, ma chère. Sometimes it is hard to turn a man away, but you must do it if you have serious doubts."

Matt stood still, hardly believing what he was hearing; but Zoé said nothing more. He got slowly into the back seat and had to slam the door four times before it latched. Probably Zoé didn't know he'd overheard her exchange with Sophie. He'd say nothing, but he'd remember the sting that came in those words.

Lovebirds? Of course not! If Zoé had doubts, which man would she turn away?

"All right, Zoé, step on it."

"You worry too much." She shook her head sadly and adjusted the yellow headscarf. "Always in the hurry. We will wait here until the gendarmes have stopped rushing about in their little cars. They will soon tire of their game and go into town to bother the motorists going too fast."

"Going too fast is something they'll never stop this car for," said Matt with a long sigh, trying to make light of the realization that he had misread Zoé's interest in him. "We have to get to Geneva today or we'll be too late."

"Then we must go on the autoroute," said Zoé. "But that, I think, is where the gendarmes will be looking for us."

Mat sat with the blanket round his shoulders, ready to dive for cover if necessary. "They'll not stop every car, it would cause too big a hold-up. I can lie under the blanket every time we come to a toll. I've got some cash, so we won't need to use my card." Perhaps Zoé hadn't said much to Sophie because she wanted to keep their friendship secret. Perhaps she ... Perhaps she really did want Florian.

Sophie chatted away in the front like a thing wound up as they set off. Matt wished she'd drop off to sleep. Most old people dropped off to sleep in the car. Sophie didn't seem old though. She was as sharp as they came.

The next few hours were critical. Unless they could get to DCI in Geneva before the Heinmans flew back to America, escaping from the gendarmes was a pointless move. There was no way they could go into hiding for the rest of their lives. Even a long prison sentence was preferable to a life on the run. The guillotine probably hadn't been used for ages.

"Here is the autoroute." Zoé changed down a gear for the roundabout and made a complete mess of it. The clutch was weak and the gearbox grated in protest at the sudden movement. "Oops, the brother of Philippe will not like it if I wreck his lovely car."

The sign ahead pointed to the A26, the autoroute that would lead them eventually to the A1 -- the main route to Paris and the south. Matt studied a torn map of autoroute service areas he'd found on the back seat of the Renault. Beyond Paris the A26 was called the Autoroute de Soleil, the gateway to the south. The gendarmes could be waiting at the top of the slip road if they joined it here.

"Did you say wreck his car?" queried Matt. "The gearbox is about the only thing that's not already wrecked. Go round again then off onto the N43. We'll stay on minor roads until we're closer to Paris."

"Good thinking," Zoé said anxiously. "I can see a police car at the top. Get back under your blanket."

Chapter 24

JASON HAD been driving for half an hour, still trying to come to adjust to a British Volvo with the wheel on the wrong side.

"I'm stopping," he announced suddenly. "I want to check if the tailgate is properly shut. We can ditch this junk at the same time." He turned to glance at the food boxes and camping gear covered unevenly with red and green tartan rugs.

His father sounded as though he was still in a panic. "Get back on the highway, boy, we're not ditching anything. Those French cops will never know what happened back there if we take the evidence with us."

Jason wasn't going to admit it aloud, but his father was thinking well for an old man. Soon they'd be on wider highways and able to blend in with other vehicles. He checked the mirror and glanced at the instrument panel for the first time.

"The tight-fisted sod has let the tank nearly run dry," he protested. "I expect gas is cheaper back in England. We'll have to stop at the first gas station we see."

His father unfolded the French route map the woman had been using and held it on his lap. "There's more than one way to Geneva. I can see a freeway round Paris, but we have to go on pikes to get there. We won't risk it. They'll have French cops at the toll booths."

Jason laughed. "They'll not be looking for a Volvo."

"They'll be looking for someone with a damn fool beard and a gray pony tail."

Jason felt riled and he pulled his baseball cap lower over his eyes. "This is a proper Heinman beard." He needn't say any more. Those few words made the point.

"Gas station coming up. You'd better stop." His father's response sounded equally curt.

"Use cash; don't use your card," warned Jason. "I'm going to phone Urquet and let him know we've been delayed."

While his father filled the tank, Jason went to the payphone and rang Hammid Aziz. He had two gold cylinders for the arms trader, which left six to take back to the States for analysis. Aziz sounded pleased and agreed to meet at Geneva airport in the evening. Things were going well at last.

He then rang Simon Urquet at the Geneva office and explained that they were running late but still wanted to leave for America as soon as possible. Urquet said the Gulfstream would be in Switzerland by six.

With the tank full, his father studied the map again. "There's a good route that misses Paris. We go on minor highways to a place called Reims, then get on the A26. There won't be police checks that far out. We'll not be in Geneva till late, that's for sure. It's about as far as driving from New York to Detroit."

"Just don't go making any mis..." Jason stopped in mid word as his father fell forward, his face crashing into the route map spread open on his lap.

In the back of the car the lunatic with the chains grinned, the rugs draped over his shoulders. In his hands he held a length of chain. The dark links glistened with blood.

"Mes amis," the drug crazed barbarian yelled through stained, yellow teeth. "Vous etes mes amis!" And he shrieked with laughter.

*

SADIQUE WAS enjoying himself. There had been just one good fix left in Jean Paul's truck and it made him drowsy. The big car made a good hiding place. The light had hurt his eyes, but the rugs helped make the place dark. The ride was soothing, the hum of the engine comforting. He pulled the rugs back and looked at the trees silhouetted against the blue of the sky.

People who could give him this much pleasure must be good friends. As he sat up he saw the back of the old man's head. The chain was a good friend, too. The two good friends must meet.

He was surprised to see the blood. It had only been a playful blow, so why did his new friend fall forward? He shouted in excitement. "My friends. You are my friends!" Then he laughed in delight. These two men were nice. He would tie them up and they could all have fun. He would enjoy it when they started to scream.

"Stop the car," he ordered.

Why did these friends have trouble in understanding what he said?

"Stop!"

The tall man with the ponytail, the man driving the car, still didn't understand. He hit the back of his head with the loose end of the links. The man understood now. He was stupid, driving all over the place. Sadique grinned. There, the man was stopping. These two men were fine companions. It was a shame there were no fixes left to share with them.

Just one more touch with the chain and the man driving the car would be easy to put into bonds. He laughed to himself as he flicked the end of the chain forward. Both men slumped in their seats. He would start on the younger one -- the one with the pointed beard.

*

FRANK HEINMAN quickly realized that the injuries to his head were more superficial than terminal. The back of his scalp was cut but he'd not lost consciousness, in spite of receiving one hell of a crack from the wild foreigner. The man with the shaved head was a real kook. It wasn't just the Berlitzan oil that had made him behave like this. It had to be insanity as well.

He fought ineffectively as the psycho tied him to the front passenger seat with a length of cord and pushed a gag into his mouth. The couple in the Volvo must have been camping. There was plenty of the damn cord around. He was like the proverbial dumb animal being taken to the slaughter.

As he watched his son being dragged into the back, he felt his emotions erupt. Although he'd never got on with Jason, he wasn't going to let this stranger mess his son about. He managed to spit the gag from his mouth but the cords bit in tightly as he struggled. The maniac must have learnt a thing or two about knots in his more rational moments.

"What the hell!" Jason recovered consciousness in an explosive instant.

"Don't annoy him." It was a timely warning. "Find out what he wants."

"Vous etes mes amis." The big man smiled a yellow-toothed smile as he spoke.

Frank struggled again to loosen the cords. "What the hell is he saying, Jason? You speak the language."

"Amis is friends. He wants to be friends."

"Tell him he has one hell of a way of showing it."

"Amis," repeated Jason to the big man with the chain. "Nous sommes vos amis."

"Now what's going on?" Frank demanded.

"I'm telling him we're his friends."

"You'd be better off telling him to untie us." Frank wrenched at the cord around his waist and it cut into his flesh. "I'll give him amis when we're out of here!"

The maniac got into the driver's seat, grinning. "Sadique!" He pointed to himself proudly. "Je m'appelle Sadique!"

"He's telling us he's called Sadique," said Jason.

"Hell, boy, I don't care if he's called Daffy Duck." Frank could feel a crushing pressure in his chest as he struggled for breath.

"Just shut it," muttered Jason from the rear seat. "I'm trying to get out of these ropes."

The maniac let out a cry of triumph as he pulled a gold cylinder from Jason's bag. Perhaps he recognized it as the type of cylinder that had affected his friends. Frank turned away. Telling him not to open it would be an invitation to do so -- if they could speak the same language.

The lunatic needed no such bidding. He was already unscrewing the cap as a bright red Japanese sports car, top open, shot by. The young driver had swerved towards the Volvo and blasted out a bar of Colonel Bogey as he was alongside. The passenger added to the provocation by waving derisively.

The red automobile was the trigger. A smell of tom-cats filled the Volvo. The young men in the open car had pushed the junkie into taking retaliatory action, and the maniac pressed his foot hard to the floor of the Volvo. The smoking rear tires screeched in protest as he swung the station wagon in a full one-eighty. The madman kept his foot down and accelerated towards the disappearing rear of the Mazda on the highway back to Calais.

Frank fought to stay calm as the bonds cut into his arms and chest, but his fear was changing to fury. This creature was about to kill them, and he could do nothing about it. It was more than frustration; it was a rage that he had no wish to control.

As they plunged down the hill, Frank realized that the young Mazda driver was out to play games. He'd obviously seen the big Volvo turn in the highway and now let it catch up. Then, as the madman calling himself Sadique pulled out to overtake, he accelerated away, before slowing again in a taunting maneuver as they climbed the steep, winding hill.

The driver of the red Mazda was living dangerously. There was a bend coming up, a sharp left-hander at the top of the narrow gorge. Frank recognized it as the place where Jason had nearly put a wheel wrong coming the other way; a bend with a breathtaking drop to the river, with only a low wall for protection. He'd been angry with Jason at the time for driving carelessly.

The maniac with the chains gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, screaming abuse at the car only a few yards ahead. The Mazda driver slowed at the top of the hill, but only enough to be sure of taking the corner safely. The Volvo lurched violently and stayed close.

The driver in the Mazda turned in time to see the station wagon bearing down on him before it smashed heavily into the back of his car. The massive bumper of the Volvo lifted the red sports car's rear wheels high in the air, forcing it forward, its steering on full left lock in a futile attempt to avoid the drop. But the Mazda was being pushed straight ahead.

The sports car smashed through the low wall as the occupants struggled to their feet in a desperate bid for safety, until they were standing almost to attention in their seats. Then they were gone.

The Volvo was going with them. Frank Heinman let out a scream. But the engine pan caught on the remains of the stonework -- and the blue station wagon stayed put.

Chapter 25

HE WAS going to die.

The maniac was going to kill him, was going to kill Jason as well. Like his own father, he was meeting a violent death in a foreign land.

The Berlitzan oil still smelt strongly in the Volvo. The smell alone would provoke anger, without the virulent effect it was having on his nervous system. The corrosive oil had already eaten through the floor and left a smoking hole in the steel.

Frank realized just how much he'd admired his father -- once. Now he felt a terrible resentment. Albert B. Heinman -- an uncaring man who got what he deserved on that Nazi missile site. It was Jason's fault they were here now. He'd kill Jason -- as soon as he could get free from these damn ropes!

The crazed devil leapt from the Volvo. For a moment it seemed that the station wagon would tip forward with the shift in weight. The vehicle rocked, then settled, with a sheer drop to the rocks far beneath the front wheels. The lunatic stood on the edge of the gorge and screamed unknown words into the depths.

Then he jumped.

Demented by a mixture of drugs and Berlitzan oil, the maniac with the chains hurled himself forward. With his arms and legs waving crazily, he disappeared from sight, in all probability drawn by the sight of the red Mazda lying on the rocks far below.

Jason started to moan in the back of the Volvo and Frank turned to look at his son with loathing. Things said in the past, silly things, took on monstrous importance. The insults and stupid actions, the lack of company loyalty. The infection went too deep to be cured. Jason had been like a disease since the day he was born. Those illegal arms deals with Hammid Aziz had put DCI's reputation at risk. He'd kill him now \-- if he could only get free. He struggled again, but the cords would never loosen.

"For God's sake, stop it, Father!"

Frank continued to struggle in the front passenger seat.

"Keep still," yelled his son. "We're going over."

"I never wanted you. I hope you die," retorted Frank. He wondered why he'd tolerated his son for so long.

"Berlitzan oil!" Jason breathed deeply. "We can beat it."

"I'm going to kill you, boy." He would, as soon as he was free.

"We don't have to let the stuff get to us." His son sounded calmer now. "Direct your hatred outside of this car. Think of other people you want to kill."

"I hate you!" Frank clenched his teeth and let out a stream of obscenities.

"Think of someone else." Jason leaned close to the open window in the back of the Volvo. "Think of that English soldier in the war. Think of someone outside the family you really hate."

"Who do you hate, Jason?"

His son suddenly screamed with rage. "DCI! I'd destroy the whole damn organization if I could. But I don't blame you."

Either the smell was clearing or Jason had hit on the Achilles heel of Berlitzan oil. If he couldn't control his hatred, he could at least direct it against an enemy who wasn't here. Jason was a good son, but the English soldier had deserved all he got with that knife. How he'd hated that man. He could rip him apart again.

"You okay, Father?"

"I don't hate you anymore," he said quietly.

"See, it's working." Jason sounded jubilant as he breathed more fresh air from the open window. "We've cracked it. Just keep thinking love."

Frank didn't bother to reply. He was back in the hospital cutting the hands off Alec Rider. Ripping at the man's mouth so that the jaw snapped wide open to reveal the toothless gums. And the eyes. He could see the old soldier's eyes filled with terror, just like his father's eyes in 1944 when he leaned forward to pull the pin from the grenade.

*

SOPHIE SOUNDED by far the brightest of the three as the ageing Renault made its smoky way down the A1 towards Paris. Although not as direct as the A26 through Reims and Troyes, this was a busy autoroute where the police would find it hard to observe the occupants of every car.

Matt leaned forward in the back seat. "Tell me, Sophie, why do you remember my grandfather so well?"

"Ah, my Tommy from the war. Your grandfather was a lovely man, Matthieu."

"Lovely," agreed Matt. "I don't want to upset you too much, but can you tell us exactly what happened at the Nazi launch site?"

"I have always felt a share of the guilt, so perhaps it is time I faced up to what took place. The two Americans came in a small German plane. Colonel Röhm was in charge. He said the Americans had brought a secret weapon. I think he was joking."

"It was no joke," said Matt.

The old woman ignored the interruption, apparently absorbed in the events. "The plane returned that night to take the Americans away. There were reports of Allied landings along the Pas-de-Calais. It was a false alarm."

Matt struggled to follow the conversation. His French was good, but Sophie spoke too quickly for him at times. "And then the site blew up?"

Sophie nodded slowly. "Tommy fired his machine gun, and the German plane ran out of control. It hit the store where they kept the flying bombs. The two Americans ran with me to the wire where your grandfather was hiding. Tommy had already opened the top of one of those gold cylinders, and when the four of us huddled together for safety we all became angry."

"It was a poison gas."

"I do not know, Matthieu. Perhaps. But the two Americans got mad with each other and with Tommy. I think we were all out of control."

"And they hit my grandfather on the head?"

"The three of them behaved like savages. Tommy cut the old man's hands off with his chef's knife -- while the old man was still alive. Tommy kept shouting that he must have the gold rings. The older American was making so much noise that Tommy forced a grenade into his mouth to shut him up. His son, Frank, reached across and did something to it. The noise as it exploded was terrible. Frank Heinman was hit in the mouth and arm by some of the fragments. I got the blood and the brains of the old man all over me. That made me scream even more. I did not realize at first that Tommy had also been injured by the grenade."

"I knew nothing about this," said Matt softly. Perhaps it was as well his grandfather had never remembered. "But only one of the Americans died; the young one escaped. Am I right?"

Sophie nodded. "I dragged Tommy into the reeds. The Germans found the body of the old man and took him away with the dead soldiers, and the young American was driven off in a staff car with Colonel Röhm."

"What happened to my grandfather?"

"All that night I nursed your grandfather. I no longer felt angry. He was bleeding badly. When we hid in the reeds I washed him. We kissed and I got covered in the blood of Tommy, but I did not mind his blood on me. Of course we did not make love together, but he was like a lover to me, Matthieu. I cannot explain how I felt. One day, I wanted to say sorry to Tommy," said Sophie, in tears at the memories that had been revived. "That is why I was so pleased when Mayor Oudet gave me your first letter."

Matt leaned forward again. "He was sure he killed you. He found your gold cross in his kitbag."

"My poor Tommy. I went to get him some food, but the Germans ordered me back to the village. I did not dare return until the next night, and by then Tommy had gone. I thought perhaps the Nazis had taken him."

"He managed to get back to England." Matt wondered whether to explain that his grandfather was already married at the time, and decided not to mention it. "He never could remember what happened, but he knew he'd been mixed up in something horrible."

"Your grandfather was a kind man, Matthieu. Something came over him -- and over me. I felt so much hatred for the two Americans that I could have killed them myself. It is an awful thing to say, but the war affected many young people like that. Sophie reached into her purse and withdrew the crucifix Matt had returned to her only yesterday. "I want to give the little gold crucifix to your lovely friend Zoé here. I know that I am now safe for eternity, but when I look at the figure on it, I feel unworthy to wear the symbol of my faith. I think perhaps it should stay with you young people.

Zoé pulled out to crawl past an old campervan that was struggling up the long hill. It was one of the few vehicles they'd managed to overtake since starting the trek to Geneva. "There is something dangerous inside those gold cylinders, and the Heinmans are responsible," she said. "Matt thinks they are trying to escape to Switzerland, and he has a plan."

"And we are going there to confront them?" Sophie sounded almost excited.

Matt leaned forward. "If I see the Heinmans driving, I'm going to ram their car in full view of everyone and call the police. If they've got any of those gold cylinders on board, I can prove our innocence and get them arrested at the same time."

"I think perhaps Matt is joking," Zoé explained.

Matt shook his head. "Never more serious. That's plan A. Ken thought of it. Plan B is to get to Geneva before the Heinmans, talk to someone called Urquet \-- and hope he's a man with a conscience."

"I think I prefer Plan B," said Zoé, as the campervan passed them again them on the level.

"And we all have to hope we don't get killed," added Matt.

*

EVERY PASSING motorist ignored them, and Frank Heinman's anger grew stronger until he felt himself shaking with rage. The open cylinder of Berlitzan oil was still emitting its disgusting odor when a thin man in shorts, a yellow cycling jersey and black helmet, brought his bike to a halt by the side of the Volvo. He looked eager to help.

"Vous avez eu kidnappé?" he inquired.

"What the hell's he saying, Jason?" shouted Frank.

"He thinks we've been kidnapped."

"Then tell him we have." He tried to move but his strength was exhausted.

The cyclist pulled at the cords that held Frank to the seat. "Ces cordons sont très raides," he said as he tugged at the knots.

"Just be quick, fella." Frank felt unable to be genial, even to his benefactor. He could still smell the damn oil.

The man pulled at him roughly as he struggled with the knots. Eventually he freed him, then reached in to Jason. "Et vous," he muttered.

The maniac had tied Jason's bonds too tight. The cyclist went to a bag on his bike and returned brandishing a small pocketknife.

Frank stood by the side of the Volvo stretching his cramped limbs. The smell of Berlitzan oil was in the air, even outside the Volvo. The cyclist had breathed in the fumes and probably intended to kill Jason, not set him free.

Frank raised a finger and beckoned. "See here, mister."

"Quoi?"

"Over this wall, fella. A red automobile down there on the rocks. See?"

"Une auto, monsieur?"

"Look. Down there."

Frank sensed that the man resented the way he'd been taken by the arm.

The man in the yellow jersey pushed him away angrily. "Ne me touchez pas, monsieur!"

Frank snatched at the knife in the cyclist's hand. But the man dropped it and seized him by the jacket, trying to force him over the edge. Frank looked down the sheer rock face. Far below he could see the wrecked Mazda. The shrubs in the rock face might break his fall, but he'd be killed for sure.

Frank noticed the lunatic's body lying on the rocks, close to the twisted red bodywork. Any moment now, he'd be there with him. The anger that welled up gave him an enormous strength and he dropped to his knees, catching the Frenchman off balance and tipping him forward, over the low wall, screaming into space.

The body landed three seconds later. Frank watched it tremble for several seconds where it lay on the rocks, then it became still. He turned to Jason, the knife clenched in his hand.

"No, Father! Think love!" Jason yelled in panic.

Frank dropped to the ground by the Volvo.

"Pass me the knife!" Jason shouted.

Frank shook his head. "Not a chance in hell. I'm waiting for the effects of that damn oil to wear off."

Jason continued to struggle. "We can beat it, Father. Don't you understand, I can direct my anger away from here."

"And all I have to do is wait for the gas to clear." Frank felt faint with fatigue. "That way I'll be safe."

"Damn you!" Jason fought with his bonds. "One day I'll make you suffer for leaving me like this!"

Chapter 26

MATT RAN to the phone while Zoé filled the Renault with fuel.

"Ken? How did you get on with the police?"

Ken didn't sound exactly thrilled to hear Matt's voice. "Have you been winding me up with your phone calls again?" he demanded.

"What happened?"

"I made a complete fool of myself at Trinity Green, that's what. I demanded to see the chief inspector and thought I was about to make a good impression. I had the photo and everything ready."

"And?"

"The man who called at the hospital had a deep scar on his chin. A very old scar."

"So?"

"For one thing, Frank Heinman doesn't have a mark."

"And for another?"

"The man in the photo is about thirty years too young. Photos don't lie."

"They do if they've been electronically retouched. Perhaps age and beauty are important to the DCI image. What did the chief inspector say?"

"Something about you that I'm not repeating."

Matt felt frustrated. Whatever plan he made, there was always something he didn't expect. "Okay, tell the police I've got some photos of ... damn!"

"What's up, kiddo?"

"We left the Mini at the supermarket site when the gendarmes arrested us. Make sure the police contact someone in France. They'll find my camera under the passenger seat. Tell them to get the film developed and show the pics to the hospital sister. See if she recognizes the old man."

"You're not expecting the cops at Trinity Green to take any notice of me now, are you? They think I'm as daft as you."

"And tell them to look after the car. I'm missing it already."

"I'm not sure I should get involved again."

"Give it a try, Ken. Please. I've got to go. Zoé needs some cash to pay for the fuel."

*

THE GUSTING wind made the front of the Volvo tip slowly up, and then down, as it balanced precariously across the low wall guarding the drop.

Jason watched anxiously as his father picked up the cyclist's knife and slit the ropes that held him. He could feel the Volvo moving again and dared not get out of the seat. "The first thing we do," he said as he rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation, "is save the station wagon. Here, give me that damn knife."

His father pitched the knife over the wall. "It's safer this way, Jason. Keep still, or the front will drop."

"It's rear wheel drive." Jason could see the way out. "The rear tires will grip the ground if you open the tailgate and sit in the trunk. I'll climb through to the front and start the engine."

"You sure you know how to select reverse?"

"Stop bleating and make yourself useful."

His father perched in the back, the tailgate wide, ready for a quick exit if the station wagon tipped forward.

With a tearing noise, the Volvo jerked backwards and the front wheels crashed onto the lay-by. Jason jumped from the driving seat and looked under the hood. "It's okay. There's nothing dripping."

"There's something else to throw over."

Jason was amused by his father's oblique reference to the Berlitzan oil. He pretended not to understand. "What else? You?"

"The rest of that damned oil. I know you've got some on you."

He held up his hands in a display of innocence. "It's all gone. The crazy loon found the last one."

"Are you sure?" His father sounded suspicious.

Jason patted his coat pocket. He could feel the remaining seven cylinders side by side. "Do you think I'd lie to you?"

*

THE ROADS were dark long before the rattling Renault reached Geneva. Matt was taking his turn with the driving, keeping an anxious eye on the trail of smoke that followed them down the autoroute. They would be in Switzerland soon, and the Swiss were fussy about things like that.

The flat landscape had at long last given way to a skyline of jagged peaks marking the start of the Alps. Their route led them along a wide valley, with the mountains growing higher by the minute. He decided to leave the autoroute on a minor road and an hour later got through the Swiss border without being checked, finally stopping in the city of Geneva on a wide quay by the edge of Lac Léman.

The DCI offices were impossible to miss, sharing a huge building that looked like a prime example of inter-war grandeur. Along with the signboards for insurance and other financial conglomerates, the name of Domestic Chemicals International shone out for the passing world to see, the largest illuminated sign around.

Out in Lac Léman Matt watched a floodlit column of water rise high into the night sky, the breeze scattering the top into the gloom. There must be towns and villages somewhere along the edge of the lake, but the water looked like a vast ocean with no lights twinkling in the distance. An unknown blackness. For a moment he felt sheer panic at the audacity of what they were about to do.

Matt turned his attention to the DCI building. It appeared to be in perfect condition; doubtless an attempt to assure the world that DCI and the other occupants were doing very nicely thank you. The influence of Art Deco on the angular windows and square frontage spoke of wealth. Certainly not just of wealth gone by.

"For all we know, the Heinmans are already here," said Matt, not very helpfully. "Let me have a few minutes to think about this. It looks like it's plan B -- I confront Urquet with all we know."

Zoé turned to Sophie. "It is a cold night, madame. I will take you for a meal while Matt uses his brain. Myself, I think perhaps he needs to come up with Plan C."

Matt reached into his pocket. "Take my credit card and book Sophie into a hotel, but come straight back."

"I am hungry," complained Zoé.

"I'm going to need you here." He felt too tired for an argument. He'd only slept for a couple of hours in the gendarmerie last night, though both he and Zoé had taken it in turns to doze while the other took the wheel on the long drive down. "Look for a cash point and get some Swiss cash. Get us both some food. I'm starving, too."

"And the PIN for your card?"

"Eight four five two. It's too late now to worry about being traced. This is the end of the line."

"Any more orders?"

"Yes, take that ridiculous headscarf off."

Zoé reached up and touched her head. "I did not realize I still had it on. I must look terrible."

"You do."

Zoé ripped the yellow headscarf off and threw it into a waste bin on the railings. "Satisfied?" she asked, but she seemed to be sharing the absurdity of the situation in spite of keeping a straight face.

Matt stood by the railings on the quay when Zoé and Sophie had gone, listening to the water lapping in a regular beat against the stone wall far below. For a time his mind stayed a blank, and he could only blame it on fatigue. He glanced at his watch, and then it hit him. There were different times zones around the world. Plan C. He knew exactly what to do.

Twenty minutes later, Zoé returned with a large paper bag from a fast food chain. "Sophie is fixed up for the night, and I have managed to buy us some food," she said, sounding pleased with her enterprise.

"Thanks." Matt took the bag, pulled out a burger in a bun and bit into it.

"And you have decided what plan to use?" Zoé asked.

"One of us needs to speak to Urquet."

"I could be the pharmacist again."

That didn't sound like a good idea. "Urquet told you to send a fax, but we didn't. So someone here may have contacted Frank Heinman's real pharmacist to see what it was all about. Last Christmas Eve, I put on an American accent and phoned Ken. Said I was a prosperous Texan who wanted him to fly to Miami. He was dead keen to go -- until I explained he had to rescue someone kidnapped by a ruthless drugs baron."

"And he believed you?"

Matt laughed at the memory. "Ken's always claimed he knew it was a wind-up. He said he just went along with it."

"And what use is an American accent in Switzerland?"

"I'll say I'm in the DCI New York office, and I have to speak to one of the Heinmans urgently."

Zoé had opted for a salad in a plastic pack. She pulled it open with her teeth. "How will it help?" She didn't seem impressed.

Matt took another bite from his burger. A few days ago Zoé would never have used her teeth like this in front of him. The reserve in their relationship must be breaking down. "It's only late afternoon in New York."

"So?"

"You can see people in most of the offices here, so I reckon some of the staff have to work late to keep in touch with New York. That means there'll be a switchboard operator on duty. The operator won't think it odd to be getting a call from America. I'll ask to speak to the president."

"And if he is already here?"

"I put the phone down and we go and see the police. Maybe they'll be alerted by now."

"And if the 'Einmans have not arrived?"

"I'll get put through to Urquet and tell him everything. If he doesn't want to listen, he won't know we're here in Geneva, so it might still be possible to go for Plan A and ram the Heinmans' car." He wiped his chin. "I needed that. Can you see a phone?"

Zoé pointed across the quay. "Over there, but you will need a card. There is a bar down the road. Perhaps they sell them. I will drive and ask."

Matt looked at the Renault. "It might be quicker to walk. No, only joking. Take the car." He already felt better from a few bites of food. He stood on the quay overlooking the black water of the lake while Zoé drove down the road in a haze of smoke.

The phone cubicle looked cramped. He picked up the handset when Zoé returned with a phone card. The ring was answered quickly, and he tried the American voice that had once fooled Ken.

"Is that DCI Geneva? Listen, girl, this is the New York office. We have an emergency. It's imperative that I speak to the president immediately. Be as quick as you can.... Yes, I understand. Listen, girl, I don't want any time wasted. Just put me through to Urquet."

In spite of the tension, Matt smiled. He'd learnt a thing or two from Zoé. He could imagine some poor woman in the building becoming increasingly flustered.

"He's there, girl, so don't go giving me any security flannel. Just put me through -- assuming Urquet's not gone early."

Matt breathed in deeply and slowly. The fresh air spilling off the mountains seemed like a breath of heaven. The suspense was like hell. A sudden change of plan came to him. Matt didn't even have time to think it through. Plan D. He'd be the Heinman's driver.

He heard a male voice on the line. "Mr. Urquet?" he asked. "What was that fool of a switchboard girl playing at? ... New York? Did she think I was in New York? ... I'm driving the president and his father down to you. We've had a slight hold-up on the autoroute and they've stopped off for a meal ... Sure, they've already discussed it with me, Mr. Urquet ... No, I can't say I'm too keen on it either. Well, no, but it's not exactly my problem. I'm only the driver ... The DCI Gulfstream from New York? Remind me about it. They're meeting...? Yes, I remember now, at the DCI building ... Okay, Mr. Urquet, see you soon."

He replaced the phone and reached out to hug Zoé. "We've hit the jackpot, girl. Urquet is expecting the Heinmans sometime soon, but he's not at all happy about what's going on. A DCI jet has just arrived at Geneva airport. It's part of some scheme Urquet's hatched up, and I'm supposed to know all about it."

"What scheme?" She let the hug continue.

"I haven't a clue." He still felt elated by his success on the phone. "I wonder if this is the right time to get the police involved. What do you think?"

"The police were bad for us in France."

"You're right," agreed Matt. "If we go to the local police they'll detain us, while they check with the Pas-de-Calais. While we're protesting our innocence, the Heinmans could be back in America on their private jet." He pointed to the phone booth. "I'll call the airport and find out when the plane is leaving."

Zoé gripped hold of his arm. "Look, I can see a big Volvo estate. No, it has English plates, and it is going round the back. Maybe I should go to the hotel and check on Sophie while you are phoning. She is very tired after the journey."

"Sophie!" He knew what to do now. Ken would call it thinking on the hoof, but this one was going to work. He was probably onto plan X by now. "Quick, get Sophie here. That woman tells a convincing story. She can tell Urquet everything she knows -- before the Heinmans arrive."

*

"YOU DIDN'T tell me how much of a mess you're both in." Simon Urquet stared at the young president and his father with what he hoped was an undisguised look of distaste.

The new president seemed aware of the hostile attitude. "I pay you to deal with DCI business, Urquet, and this is DCI business. I just hope you've not been wasting our time."

"The DCI Gulfstream is already at the airport, Jason." Urquet glanced across at the ex-president and wondered if he could cause a division between father and son. "And that's what I told your driver on the phone not many minutes ago, Frank."

"What the hell are you talking about, Urquet?" The old man sounded bewildered. "You know anything about this, Jason? No? You're one hell of liar, Urquet. We don't have a driver. You been hitting the bottle or something?"

Urquet decided to stay silent and not antagonize either man for the sake of scoring a few points. Certainly there was no driver in the Volvo when they arrived. Whatever the reason, someone was confused about the phone call.

He looked closely at Frank Heinman, trying to see into his eyes. As senior corporate lawyer, he'd landed a most uncomfortable job. The New York executives were right to be concerned about the ex-president's state of mind. Miller, ringing from his hospital bed in England, blamed the change on a confidential memo from Ingrid Rosestein of NATA. Whatever the reason, the old man couldn't handle it any longer. And now the Heinmans had the French police after them.

"I need to know something of the circumstances of your troubles, Frank."

"You only need to know what we're telling you, Urquet," snapped Heinman senior. "Jason will drive us down to the airport -- as long as that airplane's ready."

"Like I said on the phone, the company Gulfstream arrived an hour ago." Urquet expected a word or two of thanks. It had been hard getting the aging jet over from New Jersey with less than twenty-four hours' notice. Gratitude had never been a Heinman weakness.

"You'd better tell us just what sort of amazing plan you've dreamt up," interrupted Jason. He sounded even more unpleasant than usual.

Simon Urquet wanted to hit him. He'd done more than his share of covering up to save Jason Heinman from the FBI over the years, and the ungrateful jerk never once had the decency to acknowledge his efforts. "You're both flying back to the States tonight."

Heinman senior banged the polished desk with his fist. "You're a fool, Urquet, if that's all you've managed to think up!"

"With respect, Frank, there's more," Urquet protested. "You came on the airplane from New York earlier this evening. You and the president."

"The hell we did! What gives with you tonight, Urquet?"

"Not really, of course." Urquet wondered how he could possibly explain his proposal to these two jumpy men. "You're going to be dressed as ground crew."

Jason had been studying the large map of Switzerland on the wall. "Sounds brilliant to me."

"Then you must let me explain it slowly, so even you can understand it." Urquet turned to the ex-president. "Two loyal DCI men have flown into Geneva on board your Gulfstream from New Jersey, but they've stayed on board. As soon as you get to the airport, you'll both be given coveralls and passes. You enter the operational side dressed as ground crew. Once you're there, you exchange clothes with the DCI men on board the jet. A few minutes later, they come back out dressed as ground crew, and you two gentlemen put on the business suits. You then leave the airplane and enter Switzerland through customs and immigration with your passports."

"And they'll think we've just arrived?"

Jason was catching on. The old man was still frowning.

"Customs have been told you're asleep aboard the Gulfstream right now and are not to be disturbed."

"And the switch won't be noticed," said Jason.

"Exactly." Urquet gave a calculated sigh. "They'll not only think you've just arrived -- we'll be able to prove it. I made sure your names were filed on the flight plan, and air traffic control will confirm that your jet came direct from America with no stops. So you could not possibly have been up in the north of France last night."

Urquet waited.

Jason Heinman was quicker than his father. Maybe he was going to make the grade as president after all. "And we return to the States tomorrow, officially? That should keep those frog cops too confused to apply for extradition. As if the hell they would, anyway." He nodded his head appreciatively. "Good planning, Urquet. You're a valuable man in the DCI organization. I'm looking for a vice-president right now."

"It's something I'll need to consider." Simon Urquet could have added that his job seemed to consist solely of getting DCI out of the mire. "I'll have to know more details of your problems in France -- as soon as you're back in the States. I fancy you'll still be needing some help when you touch down."

*

"WE'RE going in now," said Matt quietly. He turned to Sophie who stood, eyes wide, beside him on the pavement. A brief meal at the hotel seemed to have done her good. "You are ready to tell Monsieur Urquet your story, madame?"

Sophie nodded solemnly.

Matt checked for movement inside the entrance. He'd been aware of uniformed security staff walking about inside the building.

"They will stop us at the front door," said Zoé. "Perhaps the 'Einmans they are here already."

"Stop worrying about them," said Matt. "I don't think they're coming."

"Perhaps Monsieur Urquet was wrong. Perhaps they have gone straight to the airport," suggested Zoé.

"Perhaps," agreed Matt. "All we can do is convince Urquet that his bosses are up to no good, and leave it to him to sort out." He turned to Sophie. "Please do not hold anything back, madame. There was something about the way Monsieur Urquet spoke to me on the phone. The man has doubts. I believe he will listen if you tell the truth."

"Ah, the truth, Matthieu. Yes, I will tell the truth about the 'Einmans."

Zoé still sounded worried. "It is a risk too big."

"If we wait any longer, Monsieur Urquet will go home."

"He might refuse to see us."

Matt ignored Zoé as he suddenly realized that the building reminded him of the biscuit factory back home, but on a much grander scale.

Zoé caught his expression. "You are not listening," she admonished him. "I said Monsieur Urquet might refuse to see us."

"I could march in there pretending to be a DCI executive." He was onto plan Z by now.

"Executive?"

"Chemical safety check. A surprise visit on the personal orders of the president," said Matt. "I'll demand to see Urquet."

"And how will you explain Sophie and me?"

"You can be the nurse, and Madame Sophie can be ... the canary testing for pure air. I don't know, but I'll think of something. I wouldn't mind having that young priest with us. He was full of good ideas."

"Father Alban will still be riding south on his bicycle to get away from Lacoste, I think."

"Maybe he got down here before us. That Renault was slow." Some day he'd shake Father Alban by the hand.

Zoé breathed in sharply. "Sophie, are you ready?"

Matt started to feel uneasy. "Tell me, do I look presentable enough to be a safety executive?"

Zoé shook her head.

Matt ignored her. There must be a foolproof way to get an old woman inside. He ran his fingers through his short hair and walked towards the Art Deco building. As they approached the door the solution occurred to him. "Does old Frank Heinman have a wife?"

Zoé looked puzzled. "I do not know."

"Well, he has now." Matt nodded towards Sophie. "Madame Sophie, do you speak English?"

"Not very well." She caught hold of his arm. "Please, I am a little bit frightened."

Matt nodded. "We're all a bit frightened. Whatever anyone says to you, don't say a word. Keep looking at me. When I nod, you nod. When I shake my head, you do the same. And try to act frail and unsteady. All right?"

"If you say so, Matthieu, but I do not want to be a nuisance."

"Believe me, Sophie, you are not a nuisance."

The security guard looked surprised to find three strangers approaching the wide entrance. He stood defensively in the doorway.

Matt kept walking. "This is the president's mother," he announced. "We've brought her from the airport." He hoped his fake American accent was good enough.

"You have some ID?" queried the guard.

"Mrs. Heinman doesn't carry ID," retorted Matt. "She's not staff."

"Are you Mrs. Heinman?"

Matt nudged Sophie, and nodded. Sophie copied vigorously.

"We have to escort Mrs. Heinman to Mr. Urquet's office to wait for the president," said Matt. "She hasn't been well."

The guard drew himself almost to attention and looked at Matt closely. "Why, yes, but I need identity." He sounded American, which was bad news. Matt knew his attempt at the accent was dismal.

"Urquet knows Mrs. Heinman." Matt could only hope that the guard came from some remote part of the States and didn't know one accent from another. Or from Mars.

"I'm not sure Mr. Urquet is here."

"Of course Urquet is here," said Matt quickly. "I was with the president when he spoke to him on the phone not many minutes ago."

A second guard came from behind the reception desk. "Trouble?"

"It's the president's mother come to see Mr. Urquet. On the president's orders. She's not well."

If she existed, neither of the guards could have met Mrs. Heinman face to face. Matt watched the effects of the magic word president on the second guard. He was a creep.

"Maybe you should sit here in reception, Mrs. Heinman. I'll phone Mr. Urquet and tell him to come down."

Sophie took her cue from Matt and shook her head.

"Then you'd better follow me, Mrs. Heinman."

The second guard sounded amiable. Matt could see a light at the far end of the corridor.

"I know we're expecting the president and his father, but I didn't know about you, Mrs. Heinman." The guard spoke loudly. "Did you come on the same flight?"

Matt nodded. And so did Sophie.

"Good flight from New Jersey?"

"Not bad," said Matt, deciding that he had been on the plane as well. "Not bad at all." He must be careful not to get too familiar with these men. The idea was to intimidate them.

"Are the president and Mr. Heinman senior on their way?"

Matt said nothing.

"Looks like Mr. Urquet is in, sir. Only we don't always know the movements of senior staff. They come and go to the car park through a secure private staircase."

"We'll see Urquet by ourselves," said Matt, in a tone intended to dismiss the security man.

The guard hesitated. "If you say so, only it sounds as if Mr. Urquet isn't alone."

Urquet with visitors was something he'd not considered. Matt was unprepared, and let himself waver just a moment. Perhaps the guard sensed it.

"Shall I knock, sir?"

The guard might be over-helpful, but more likely he was now suspicious of his visitors. Probably it was the hopeless American accent. The man reached forward and knocked loudly on the door.

The sound of voices in the room ceased abruptly.

Chapter 27

FRANK HEINMAN looked up from the table as one of his security guards pushed the door open.

"The president's mother to see you, Mr. Urquet."

Frank jumped at the guard's words, but turned quickly to face the wall, motioning to Jason to do the same.

"Are you Simon Urquet?" The voice was that of an Englishman.

"And who are you?" said Urquet.

Frank turned slowly to see a fair-haired man standing with two women inside the open door. The man spoke confidently.

"Mr. Urquet, I came to tell you that the Heinmans are murderers, but I can see they're already here."

Frank knew Urquet's ingenious plan was falling apart. "You keep them here, Urquet. I'm going with Jason to the airport."

The security man hovered uncertainly while the Englishman jumped forward, his eyes blazing. "Just stay still, all of you," he shouted angrily. "I'm Alec Rider's grandson. You murdered my grandfather in hospital, Mr. Heinman. And this is Sophie Boissant. You tried to kill her last night. You killed her neighbor instead."

Frank felt his protests catching in his throat. "I ... I don't know..."

"Well, I know," snapped Rider. "You came to France to find a gas that DCI made in the war. Here, I've got some for you."

Frank watched the man reach into his pocket. This was the English PI who'd written to NATA; the PI who had got Miller into hospital. And the fool had Berlitzan oil. How the hell Rider had got it wasn't important -- but he could kill them all.

"If you don't let us go, I'm going to release it," Rider persisted. He looked mad enough to do it, too.

Frank turned to the guard, his chest tight with anxiety. "We can negotiate this alone. And I don't want you pressing any alarms."

Urquet nodded to the guard who walked reluctantly out of the room, pausing for one last look as he closed the door.

Frank turned to Urquet. "Kill the three of them."

"You're forgetting the poison gas," said Rider.

The English PI had become a nuisance. Frank turned on him angrily. "You're not going to wreck DCI, you young fool. If you understood anything about company loyalty, you'd see just how much of a mistake you've made in coming here."

Urquet slowly opened a drawer in his desk. From it he produced a Walther P99. He kept it low on his lap, holding the chunky grip tightly. Frank caught his eye.

"Okay, Urquet, give me the gun and I'll shoot them if you're afraid to pull the trigger."

Simon Urquet hesitated. "Not here, Frank. Someone will hear the shots."

Jason pointed at the PI. "Rider's only bluffing about the oil." Now that Urquet's gun was holding the three intruders back, he came forward.

Frank still felt confused. "We have to be sure."

Jason laughed. "I'm sure, you stupid old man. I've got them all in my pocket."

Frank watched as his son produced seven gleaming gold cylinders from his jacket. The Berlitzan oil that had been destroyed! He'd promised. Hell, they were betraying DCI from within now.

"Search the Englishman, Jason." Frank tried to keep his composure. "We have to be sure."

Jason dropped the cylinders on the desk and caught hold of Rider. He handled him with a deliberate roughness, and found nothing. The PI had been bluffing. When he came to the young woman his eyes beamed with pleasure as he ran his hands up inside her dress.

She brought her knee up hard between his legs.

It was an elementary move but it caught Jason. Frank screwed up his face as his son collapsed across the desktop in agony, knocking the gold cylinders to the floor. "Shoot them, damn you, Urquet! Shoot them!"

Urquet kept the Walther pointed but unfired. "You go, Frank. I can handle this. I'll phone through to the airport and make sure you're met outside the terminal."

Frank nodded. Simon Urquet was a good company man. A man like this would stay loyal. "Make sure you kill them, Urquet, or they'll bring DCI down in disgrace. I'll see you're okay."

"Thanks, Frank, I appreciate that."

Jason groped for his precious cylinders, probably unable to see clearly through streaming eyes. Frank tried to see if his son was successful in retrieving the small cylinders, but it was dark under the desk. Then Jason stood up and put his hands close to the young woman. "I hope you rot in hell!"

Frank dragged his limping son through the inner door that led down to the secure car park. As he closed the door he hesitated. His corporate lawyer seemed to be talking to the intruders in a tone that sounded almost conciliatory.

"You'd better tell me what's going on, before the guard comes back," he could hear Urquet saying.

Frank flung the door open, unable to contain his anger. "Don't question them, Urquet. Shoot them now. They're a danger to the whole structure of DCI!"

Urquet nodded. "Just go, Frank. I know what to do."

Frank Heinman sat with his head resting in his hands as Jason drove the Volvo station wagon to Geneva airport. The Rider family had turned DCI upside down with their interference. Could Urquet really get them out of this one?

"Wake up, you old fool," Jason snapped as he brought the vehicle to a sudden halt with a screech of brakes.

Frank shook his head. The Volvo would be devastating evidence of their presence in northern France when it was found here at Geneva airport, on yellow lines outside the departure terminal. Maybe Urquet could do something about it.

Jason jumped out and started running.

"Where the hell are you going, boy?" Frank called angrily. Without Jason he felt exposed.

Jason stopped. "I thought I saw ... someone I knew. I'll be back in a moment."

Frank swore loudly as Jason hurried across the lounge and started talking to two men.

"Are you Mr. H?"

The tap on his shoulder from behind made him jump. Frank turned to see a man in white coveralls with an airline insignia on the pocket.

"I'm taking you to the service area, Mr. H. There's an airplane you have to meet."

Frank nodded. Mr. H? At least Urquet had been diplomatic and not blabbed his mouth off to everyone until the whole world knew of the plan. "My son's over there." He pointed towards the departure desks, but Jason had gone. So had the two men he'd been with.

"You have to be quick, Mr. H," urged the man in white coveralls.

Frank looked round the airport lounge in panic, desperately seeking Jason. "We'll have to wait," he insisted. Where the hell had the boy got to?

*

URQUET MADE his phone call to his contact at the airport, confirming that the Heinmans were on their way. Matt decided the lawyer looked uneasy as he sat at his desk with the Walther in his lap.

The way down to the car park would make a good escape route, taking them away from the front door and the security guards. Urquet's keys were on the desk, on a Porsche key ring. Almost certainly he had a car down there. Matt held on to Zoé and wished he could communicate with her, to pass on his plan. Then Sophie caught his eye and he sensed what he could only describe as an immediate telepathic exchange with the old woman. They had both glanced at the door just before their eyes met.

Matt decided to go for it. Sophie caught his eye again. It was amazing how the two of them interacted. He changed his grip on Zoé's arm, slowly increasing the pressure twice in quick succession. That should signal to her that something was happening.

"Monsieur Urquet," said Sophie in French, "Those two Americans are wicked men." She started to tell about the Heinmans, running back over the wartime incident in France. Suddenly she stood up and seized her throat, her breath coming in great gasps. Then she slumped to the ground.

Matt needed no more prompting. As Urquet bent over the choking woman he snatched the keys from the desk. He pointed to the door and tugged a protesting Zoé towards it.

"Don't stop," he shouted to Zoé.

"But Sophie. We must not leave her." Zoé sounded frantic. "I am a nurse. She is..."

Matt let the door close and shook his head. "It's an act."

"Are you sure?"

It was a very convincing performance. "No, I'm not sure, but we have to stop the Heinmans. It's what Sophie wants."

There was the option of an elevator down, but Matt knew it would make them vulnerable. Some central control might be able to bring it to a halt and trap them between floors. The carpeted staircase led to the basement area lit by a row of fluorescent strip lights.

A large metal door blocked off their escape to the road outside. Matt noticed a silver Porsche 935 facing it. The transponder unlocked the doors and the key fitted the ignition. A high cabinet by the exit showed a green and a red light.

"Press the green button," he called. "I'll drive forward and you jump in."

He was right about the controls. The green button activated a motor that swung the door up and over the roof of the waiting Porsche. He touched the accelerator. There was fantastic power under his right foot.

Zoé jumped into the passenger seat and Matt lit up the rear tires. The Porsche screeched up the ramp, seconds before the automatic door swung shut, just as alarm bells rang through the Art Deco Building. Matt let the engine rev more gently, then changed gear. The car leapt forward again, almost catching him unawares.

"I think this machine beats the caleçon off the old Mini," observed Zoé. "Look, I can see the sign for the airport." She suddenly sounded dispirited. "Why did you leave Sophie behind? She is dying of the heart attack."

"I told you, she was acting," said Matt, hoping his optimism would be contagious, and hoping that what he said was true.

The airport was several miles out of Geneva. The disembarking point for taxis and coaches was marked with the traditional yellow lines and warning notices about unattended vehicles. Matt came to a halt, vowing to get a Porsche for himself one day. With Zoé trying to keep up in her high heels he ran into the departure area. A traffic controller stood fussing over a large blue Volvo with a British number plate. They were not even through the doors before the man shouted after them not to leave the Porsche unattended.

Matt turned, hardly pausing in his rush. "Keep it," he called back. "It's a present! Un cadeau!"

*

FRANK HEINMAN bit his lip in frustration. His contact in the white coveralls and airline insignia insisted they should wait no longer. Then as suddenly as he'd disappeared, his son was back, alone and smiling.

"You remember Hammid Aziz?"

"Of course," Frank replied coldly. "Now let's get going."

"Aziz wants to do a deal," said Jason, sounding as though it was all arranged.

Frank felt his heart beat rise as he recalled that foggy morning by the East River on his way to school. That damn corpse was still rising to the surface. Berlitzan oil was being sold once more to the war mongers.

"You're not taking it on the Gulfstream, boy."

Jason held his hands out in innocence. "Would I do that? See, they're empty." He laughed. "You're too suspicious. Search me. You won't find one of those gold cylinders. They're all under Urquet's desk."

Frank knew his son too well. It was a bluff. Did Jason think he wouldn't do it? Nothing would persuade him to fly on the company jet with one drop of Berlitzan oil aboard.

"Sure, boy, I'll search you!"

*

Zoé saw them first; the two Heinmans arguing together. Matt noticed that the traffic controller had already claimed the Volvo. Two men were preparing to load it onto a low trailer. He hoped they'd be pleased with the gift of Urquet's Porsche.

Matt could clearly see the old American holding four gold cylinders. He'd been talking angrily with his son who tried to snatch at them, knocking them from his father's hand.

The small cylinders rolled under a luggage cart. Frank Heinman pulled Jason away, obviously trying to persuade him to leave them there. Jason Heinman struck his father viciously on the arm and retrieved them all, then led the way past a security check point.

Matt counted three men altogether -- hurrying through the airport workers' gate. When he got there with Zoé, an armed guard blocked the way. The man was insistent. Without passes they were going no further.

Chapter 28

"I SAY we forget Urquet's stupid ideas."

Frank Heinman only wanted one thing -- to get out of Europe and back to the States. He no longer trusted Urquet. The USA was home territory, and home territory was where he'd be safe.

"Okay, we'll get the hell out," agreed Jason. "Our jet can be ready to leave inside of ten minutes."

"Are you sure? You can't be sure," protested Frank.

"I've seen the pilot," explained Jason breathlessly. "That's where I went. I..." He shook his head. "Hell, I'm the DCI president now, not you. You'll understand as soon as we're safe home."

Frank felt an unexpected paternal responsibility for his son. "Safe home? We'll have a damn good try, the two of us."

The way onto the apron lay ahead, with several enormous jets parked by the terminal building. Frank blocked his ears as the loud whistle of engines rose to a roar. An elderly DC8 taxied away for takeoff, an airplane that was probably even older than the much smaller DCI Gulfstream. Four transatlantic passenger aircraft parked on the apron dwarfed the executive jet parked beyond them.

"We wouldn't be running like this if it wasn't for young Rider." Frank tried to stay calm. "But it's not going to make any difference is it? Urquet isn't God. I mean, that was only some crazy plan of his to pretend we were arriving tonight." But he felt doubts niggling deep down. Simon Urquet had proved himself a very able employee over the years. "I can't see a problem in going straight back to the States and saying we were there all along. These foreign places terrify me."

Jason didn't even turn to acknowledge him.

Frank kept looking at the large airplanes, and couldn't quite believe what he was seeing when presented with a view from ground level. "It was Hammid Aziz and his sidekick Carlo with you just now, wasn't it?"

Jason laughed. "Aziz needs to get out of Europe as fast as we do."

"But not with us. Not on our airplane!"

"It's all fixed," shouted Jason.

The DC8 turned away and the noise level dropped. "And the Berlitzan oil?" demanded Frank. "I might allow Aziz on board -- but not the oil."

"I dropped it in the trash can as we left the lounge."

He knew his son was lying. "The hell you have. Like you ditched it on the way down through France. I want it. All of it." He stood in front of the aircraft steps. "Believe me, Jason, I mean it."

Jason held up four gold cylinders. "Okay, it's not worth getting worked up about. I need to be out of here as much as you do."

Frank snatched them and pushed them into his jacket pocket. "And that's the lot?"

"The lot," insisted Jason. "And I'll have them back when we get to New Jersey."

"The hell you will."

As they climbed the steps to board the old Gulfstream II, Jim Fenhurst the pilot came to the doorway to welcome them aboard. Hammid Aziz, minus Carlo, was already sitting in the back seat of the small cabin.

"Thank you for offering to take me to America, Mr. Heinman," said Hammid with a slight bow. "You a very charitable man." The look was smooth, the words oily.

Frank frowned as he felt in his pocket. Berlitzan oil. Just four cylinders left out of twelve. Something bothered him. He had these four from Jason's pocket. There had been more than this in Urquet's office. So where were the others?

"We fly now?" Aziz sounded anxious.

Frank nodded to the pilot. "Get this machine in the air -- fast. And don't forget, we're not on board."

"I no say a word, Mr. Heinman." Aziz clearly thought the words were meant for him. Aziz fastened his lap belt then leaned forward in his seat. "The police, they look for me, too." He laughed, almost to himself. "They not find me here with you."

Jason nodded. "You're safe with us, Hammid. DCI isn't going to let you down." His voice sounded derisive. "DCI never lets anyone down. Isn't that right, Father?"

"That's enough, Jason." Frank turned to Aziz. "It's not right to mix our business with yours, but you're welcome to share the flight. What about the man with you at Geneva airport?"

Aziz stopped. "What man?"

Frank detected something evasive in the answer. There had definitely been two men talking to Jason. "The South American. Carlo something?"

"Ah, Carlo." Aziz braced himself in his seat as the jet accelerated for takeoff. "Yes, Carlo he come to Geneva. He on his way to Israel now."

Frank noticed Aziz and Jason exchange glances. The airborne jet banked sharply and he gripped the armrest.

Berlitzan oil.

The pressure in his stomach added to the betrayal. His own son had given Berlitzan oil to Carlo.

DCI needed funds, just as it had before the war when his father turned to Berlin. The new cancer treatment was unworkable, a con. The whole damn world of Domestic Chemicals was nothing but a house of straw -- and the Rider family was the match that had set it alight. He stood up and moved towards his son.

"Sit down," Jason shouted at him. "You're making me uncomfortable."

*

MATT HEARD his name on the public address system. The announcement told him to go to the main information desk. It might be a trick. The local police wouldn't know him by sight, but they might be watching in the lounge to see who came forward to answer the call.

"I will find out who it is," offered Zoé. "You stay here and watch me. I will signal to you if it is all right."

"We'll go together." Matt felt resigned to whatever lay ahead. "Our evidence took off with the Heinmans. But you'll see, we'll get justice. Urquet will help us. I've got confidence in that man."

It was Simon Urquet on the phone. Matt felt a surge of relief. Yes, Urquet agreed, Sophie's heart attack had been exceptionally convincing. It had certainly fooled him. He laughed as he recalled Madame Boissant collapsing on the floor of his office. If they came back to DCI he could give them some news. And please, could he have his Porsche back?

Matt hesitated. "We'll have to take a taxi. I'll ... tell you about your car later."

*

FOR OVER an hour, Frank stared at his son, all the time blaming the English soldier for this mess. As he wiped the palms of his hands in his handkerchief, the tightness in his chest became unbearable. He could see Captain Alec Rider as a young man at the missile site, helping with the death of his father. And now he could see him as the old man in the hospital. All the time he could hear Matt Rider asking questions, making accusations, intruding into DCI's secret past. He glanced at the large signet ring on his middle finger. The green eye below the two initials caught the cabin lights.

"It's time to stop, Jason. You and Aziz are bastards!"

Jason must have smelt it. The faintest scent. He leapt to his feet. "Berlitzan oil!"

Frank kept his hand deep in his jacket pocket. "I'm opening them. One at a time. You're a fool, boy, and you deserve to die. We all deserve to die."

Hammid Aziz jumped from his seat in alarm. "What is matter?" he shouted. "Something bad is smelling."

Frank let his anger take full control. Anger beyond even his comprehension.

Jason seemed to know what to do. He turned to Aziz. "I'm your friend. Don't get angry with me. Kill my father, but don't kill me."

Frank felt his body convulse as he breathed in the fumes. From his pocket he produced the four cylinders, the cap already off one. Quickly he unscrewed the other three. His injured arm gave him no problems. It was as though the aroma from the precious oil was having a healing effect on the wartime wound.

"I'm getting the axe," shouted Jason. "There's one by the emergency door. I'll kill the old bastard!"

The open cylinders fell to the floor and Berlitzan oil poured from each one, foaming as it ate its way through the thin carpet. The smell in the small aircraft cabin was overpowering. Frank coughed and put his handkerchief to his mouth.

*

TOM GARCIA had been copilot on the DCI Gulfstream for eight months. The jet was twenty years old and smelly. He'd expected something better when he took the job. They even had to fly with one eye on the Azores as they crossed the Atlantic, just in case ... He turned round in his seat. There was a lot of noise coming from the passenger cabin. Shouting and screaming.

"I'm going back." He tapped Jim Fenhurst on the shoulder. "Sounds like they're having some sort of fight."

The emergency axe sliced across the doorway, narrowly missing his arm.

"Put your masks on," Jason Heinman shouted frantically. "Breathing masks!"

Tom Garcia stared in horror as Jason attacked his elderly father with the axe. As the blows fell, blood spurted across the cabin. This was madness. He turned to Jim Fenhurst and saw he'd put his oxygen mask on. The arrogant Jim Fenhurst, the regular pilot for DCI. Thinking about Jim Fenhurst made him resentful. He should have been given the job of senior man.

This trip had been trouble from the start. Jinxed. He'd known it when they got to Geneva and found he was involved in another DCI mess. Something highly confidential. Top secret staff movements.

Far below lay the Atlantic. They were eighty minutes into the flight. He could hear Jim Fenhurst shouting into the radio requesting an emergency landing -- if they could get back to the coast of France.

"The passengers have gone berserk," Jim screamed. "The president's attacking everyone."

Tom Garcia watched the new DCI president swing the gleaming blade down on Frank Heinman's handless body. The head rolled across the floor as the aircraft banked sharply. Blood poured across the carpet, drenching the walkway. Tom kicked at a severed hand on the floor and noticed a large gold ring on one of the fingers, glinting green. He put his head between his knees to be sick.

As he raised his head, the axe fell.

*

JASON HEINMAN threw the axe to the floor and grabbed the spare mask. His father had been trouble, a man who had delivered violence -- and the old fool had deserved to die by it.

Aziz had demanded repayment of the loan when he could easily have waited. Jason picked up the axe again and held the blood-soaked handle firmly as he struck. The axe was a fitting end for Aziz. The stupid copilot was dead, his torso lying across the walkway. The pilot sat alone in the cockpit, flying the plane back to land. The pilot was a good man who had put his breathing mask on. Jason tried desperately to like him. It had worked in the Volvo, balanced on the edge of the cliff. Love your neighbor. He was winning. The fresh air from the mask started to clear his rage. Where was the Berlitzan oil now?

He turned in the copilot's seat and saw the large hole being burnt by the corrosive oil, through the carpet and through the aluminum decking. Acrid smoke rose from deep inside the structure of the aircraft, like a crazy experiment in a chemistry class. Suddenly the floor of the pressurized cabin exploded downwards into space.

The executive jet twisted onto its side. Jim Fenhurst struggled to regain control as the Gulfstream spiraled wildly through the sky. With a combination of expertise and strength, he got the plane onto a level flight, on a bearing towards France.

Jason went back into the cabin and knelt on the floor, trying to pull the ring from his father's severed hand. The ring was tight and the blood made it slippery. He felt too angry to care as he ripped the mask from his face and breathed in deeply.

Berlitzan oil. It could have made him a fortune.

Screaming with rage he returned to the cockpit and swung the axe once more.

*

AIR TRAFFIC control reported losing the Domestic Chemicals Gulfstream II from their screens sixty miles north west of Bordeaux. The water there was too deep for recovery of the wreckage but the rescue services would go through the formality of calling out a helicopter and two boats to search for survivors.

Chapter 29

THE FOUR met in the hotel bar the next morning for a late breakfast. Matt, Zoé, Simon Urquet, and Sophie. Sophie looked the most wide awake of the lot. After her playacting she'd gone straight back to her hotel to sleep soundly, leaving the others to make statements to the police.

"I imagine you'll be busy for a bit," said Matt, pouring Urquet a coffee. "Are there any Heinmans left to run DCI?"

Simon Urquet stirred his cup. "There's someone called Victor McDowell. His mother, Karen, was Albert Heinman's secretary in the war. Albert didn't use his desk just for work; he got Karen McDowell pregnant on top of it one evening after work. Albert Heinman was killed in France before the baby was born, but his wife provided for Karen and the baby generously enough. A single lump payment made in nineteen forty-four, invested wisely, and a small apartment in Queens. But the lawyers made sure neither Ms. McDowell nor her son could ever touch company money."

"But if Victor McDowell is a Heinman, he could take over DCI," said Matt.

"Victor McDowell is sixty years old. Officially, the Heinman line is dead." Urquet slumped back in his chair. "But, yes, I think there could be a problem. Karen McDowell is still alive, and Victor rang me early this morning when he saw the news on CNN. He says his mother lodged copies of certain papers with her lawyer in nineteen forty-four, to be opened on her death. Let's hope it's nothing to do with the Berlitzan Project. I can't say I took to Victor McDowell when we met last year."

"So who's in charge of DCI at the moment?" asked Matt.

"It looks like it's me in the interim. Milton Miller is due out of hospital soon. He's coming down here to help me run DCI from Switzerland for the next few months. Nearly all our manufacturing is done here, and a major pharmaceutical is interested in buying the New York side of the business." Urquet yawned. He'd probably spent the night at the office taking emergency action to save the company. "Whatever happens, I'm determined to keep DCI solvent."

Matt wondered whether to mention the reason for Miller's accident, but felt it best to remain silent. It was, after all, Miller's fault.

"My life has gone in a big circle," Sophie said, leaving her coffee untouched. "As a young woman in the war I saw how terrible those little gold cylinders could be. And now they were working their evil again."

Zoé put her hand on Sophie's thin shoulder. "The Berlitzan oil is all at the bottom of the sea with the 'Einmans."

Simon Urquet looked awkward. "It's ... not all gone."

"Tell us," said Matt.

Urquet sighed. "It's a tricky one. You remember how Jason Heinman dropped those cylinders in my office last night?"

Zoé's eyes lit up at the memory. "When I kneed him in the..."

"Yes," said Urquet. "Exactly. But he left one of them under my desk."

"He could not see it," replied Zoé. "The man had tears in his eyes."

Urquet winced. "I'm not surprised. Your aim was horribly accurate. But it leaves me with a problem."

"Destroy it," said Matt without hesitation. "Like Sophie said, it's evil."

Simon Urquet shook his head. "It's not as simple as that. I've checked with the French authorities, and the police may insist you go back to France for questioning."

"I hadn't thought about that," said Matt.

"You're not likely to face arrest in Switzerland, but I would strongly advise you against setting foot in France for the next few days," said Urquet. "I've been on the phone to Paris. The national police have taken over the investigation. I'm sure they'll stand no nonsense from Captain Lacoste."

"You must still destroy the oil," said Matt. "That stuff is a secret that should have died with the war."

Urquet sighed. "As a lawyer, I must advise you that its existence is your best line of defense."

"You'll think of something else," said Matt.

Simon Urquet nodded as though to acknowledge Matt's trust, his face wrinkling up along lines that smiled. "Let's go and bury it some place it will stay hidden forever."

"Any suggestions?" asked Zoé.

"There's an old quarry near here, and it's being filled in with mineral waste. DCI has an involvement."

"Venez," said Zoé in her native French. "We can all witness the end of it."

Urquet hesitated. "I don't have a car," he said sheepishly.

"We have the Renault," offered Zoé. "But it may not start after a night in the open."

"I've seen it," said Urquet. "We'll rent something."

Sophie took hold of Matt's arm. "You remind me so much of your grandfather, Matthieu. Would you like to make an old lady happy?"

Matt felt his face redden. He caught Zoé's eye and smiled, but she seemed withdrawn, as though thinking of other things. "What do you have in mind?"

Sophie let out such a loud laugh that Matt jumped. "We will sit together in the back seat, and you will allow me to hold your hand. I would like that, Tommy. I hope your pretty girlfriend will not be jealous."

"I think she'll let me do that," said Matt. "She might even let me put my arm round you."

But Zoé's response surprised him.

"No, Matt, you are taking me for granted. I am not your girlfriend. I said I would help you, and I am glad we did these things together. But now it is finished."

"But I was looking forward to..."

"I like you a lot, Matt. You are a nice person, but I have to go and see Florian. I phoned him from the hotel this morning."

"When are you going?" He realized he sounded stunned, and wanted Zoé to know how he felt.

"This afternoon I will catch the train from Geneva. Florian will meet me in Lyon and take me to Clermont Ferrand in his Mercedes. My parents are expecting me. I am sorry, Matt, really sorry."

"I don't even have your address."

He wanted to see her face, but she kept it turned away.

"I need you, Zoé. Please stay."

She shook her head. "Soon perhaps you will understand."

Chapter 30

SIMON URQUET arranged to get Matt's Mini shipped back to England, although Matt had to pay for a new exhaust. Anyway, a new exhaust was cheaper than another old banger -- and he was becoming almost attached to that bit of machinery from an era when not all cars were the same.

It was Ken who managed to track down the real Fergus Hawkins in Canada, and Matt who invited him over to England. Father Alban said he would also like to see Matt again. It seemed the young priest was a hero in the parish for putting one over on Lacoste, but wasn't quite so popular with his bishop. He was thinking of moving to England to work with the homeless and would like Matt to show him round.

Tracking down Zoé was proving difficult. Matt even bought a CD of Ravel's music arranged for the flute and harp, ready for their reunion. It might not be gloomy enough to cheer Zoé up, but the music would remind them both of their trip to France -- if he ever saw her again.

The hostel where Zoé had been staying had packed her things away, the warden said, and there was no forwarding address. She said she was hoping Zoé would make contact soon. Matt told her he was hoping the same, and walked home wondering if he should leave thoughts of Zoé alone. She could have returned to England with him if she'd wanted to. Obviously Florian was the greater attraction. The CD remained in its case.

The New York Times had three apparently unrelated items in the Friday paper. The first item was about an angry crowd of Jews and Palestinians that sparked off riots in Jerusalem. The initial reports from the city were confused, but the authorities said there was no connection between the riots and a problem with the drains in the city. The situation was reportedly under control, although there had been several casualties.

The second report stated that shares in DCI had fallen heavily following the tragic deaths of the president and his father. The paper reported a rumor that the Heinmans had been leaving Switzerland illegally, while wanted by the police for questioning into a series of deaths in northern France. The French police refused to comment, but did go as far as to say that they were no longer looking for anyone in connection with certain incidents. Inside sources claimed that all was not well with Domestic Chemicals International which had been borrowing heavily. News of a DCI breakthrough in cancer care had been premature. A cynical analyst claimed that the announcement had been little more than a ploy to boost stock market confidence during the company's downward slide.

The third item merited a mere four lines in the deaths column. Ms Karen McDowell, an eighty-three year old New York woman, had passed away peacefully. She had just the one son, Victor McDowell, aged 60, now living in Boston.

Simon Urquet phoned Matt to assure him he would come to England to say thank you properly, just as soon as he had sorted out a problem with some paperwork that Victor McDowell had found among his mother's effects.

Chapter 31

TWO WEEKS after Matt returned to England, Zoé rang the doorbell.

"I am back," she announced.

He noticed the easy smile as she leaned forward to give him a kiss. On the pavement he could see a large suitcase, and in her hands Zoé held an enormous bunch of flowers. Not pretty girly ones, but strong colors mixed with large brown leaves and twigs. He'd never been given flowers before. He hoped he didn't look too taken aback.

She put an arm round his neck and pulled him close for a long hug. "You are pleased to see me?"

"Pleased. And surprised." He looked over her shoulder. "I've been thinking about you every day, but I didn't know how to get in touch. The student hostel didn't have an address. What happened?"

"I needed the time to think. When we met in the bookshop, things started to go too fast for me."

"Are you on your own?"

She laughed. "Florian has not come, if that is what you are thinking. Do not worry, mon cher, that man is no longer part of my life." It was Zoé's turn to look beyond him, into the hallway, which she did rather obviously. "You are also alone?"

"Alone and wondering if I'd ever see you again. This calls for a celebration. Fancy the pub?"

Zoé shook her head. "Not the pub, I think. The White Lion, it is too ... too..."

"English?"

"Noisy."

"I thought you liked pubs."

"The White Lion? Non. If we are to go out together I would like to choose where we go. Sometimes. You have much to learn about French women, Matt."

"Teach me."

"For a start you are too tense. I have brought my flute. Shall I play for you the Pavane of Maurice Ravel? Or would you like me to massage your neck?"

She laughed as she made her way past him.

Matt picked up the suitcase.

THE END

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THE CITY IN THE CLOUDS

Guy Thorne

This book has been abridged and edited for today, with an added author biography. A wealthy Brazilian businessman has bought a large area of open ground in the south of London on which he erects three gigantic masts. Working secretly with a large gang of Chinese labourers he then constructs a fantastic city on top -- which he claims is a pleasure palace. But is he running from some enemy, and is the city really for his own protection? Thomas Kirby, a journalist, sets out to discover the secret of the City in the Clouds. Novelist Guy Thorne wrote this book in 1921, and although he is looking forward a few years, this is not science fiction. It is a straightforward adventure romance based on a massive structure built in London with advanced engineering on an unlimited budget.

Coming Soon

THE SECRET SEAPLANE

Guy Thorne

This book has been abridged and edited for today, with an added author biography. It is the outbreak of World War I, and while at Oxford University, John Lothian has his eye on Ida MacArthur. Before romance can blossom, John is sentenced to six months in prison for theft. On his release a college friend recruits him into the secret service. A huge seaplane has been developed by the British in secret, and John Lothian, with the help a petty thief he met in prison, has to help fly the beast in preparation for an attack on the German base of Friedrichsland, where it turns out that Ida MacArthur is being held prisoner. A type of Boy's Own story from 1916, with added romance and some fairly graphic violence!

MISS FERRIBY'S CLIENTS

Florence Warden

This book has been abridged and edited for today. Welton Keynes sees a job as male secretary advertised by Miss Ferriby of The Lawns in London. On the way to the interview he is warned by neighbours that several young men employed in that house have disappeared. Ignoring the advice, he takes the job, but it is not long before Welton Keynes realizes something strange and dangerous is taking place in Miss Ferriby's house. There are her mysterious clients, wealthy men and women coming to attend her séances. Although the large house is well kept, there seem to be no servants apart from the footman who is strangely out of place in that role. Welton decides to explore behind the locked doors. What he discovers signs his death warrant, unless ...

This is an old fashioned story of murder, robbery and séances, with a touch of romance. It was written in 1910 when political correctness in fiction was not even on the horizon, and the main villain was often physically disabled or disfigured (as here) to make him or her appear more villainous. Note that the physical descriptions of the characters are from the original book. It's how writers of popular fiction generally wrote, and what their readers read. Be warned: Miss Ferriby will carry on living in the some dark corner of your mind long after you have finished the story.

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