SPRING, PRESENT:
New York City/Paris/ Nice/New Canaan/Vence

Christopher Haye had always wanted to be a writer. But that thought was far from his mind on this leaden, rain-soaked April afternoon. He was center stage, as it were, in a steamy, packed courtroom in the Criminal Courts building on Centre Street, amid the antique jumble of downtown Manhattan.

Standing next to the sallow-faced bear of a man who was his client, waiting for the jury to hand down their verdict, Chris Haye tried to blot out how much he hated being a lawyer. This was particularly difficult for him to come to grips with, since it had taken an awful lot of money and hard work to get him through Princeton and then Harvard Law School. Hard work was nothing new to Chris Haye; it was a commodity he was rich in. Just as his family was rich in the more conventional sense. His father owned a manufacturing conglomerate whose subsidiaries literally spanned the globe. In fact, Chris’s father was currently in Beijing with his third wife, negotiating a reciprocal manufacturing agreement for one of his Far Eastern companies.

Chris’s hard work at school had not been in vain. His talent had come to the attention of a prestigious Park Avenue law firm still small enough to be hungry for new minds.

Max Steiner, the firm’s senior partner who had recruited Chris, was a small, distinguished man in his midsixties. His gray hair was thinning in the precise spot where a monk had his tonsure. He had a large nose that somehow made him look interesting rather than ugly, and wide-apart wary brown eyes that missed nothing. They were wary, he had told Chris, because he was a Jew, and the world hated Jews.

“You understand,” he had said on Chris’s first day at the law office, “that brilliant though I believe you to be, Mr. Haye, you must first prove your worth to this firm. As a consequence, your early cases may seem, at first blush, quite straightforward.”

“What you really mean is that the cases you give all novices are the boring ones,” Chris had said. “Perhaps even the inconsequential ones.”

Steiner smiled. “My grandfather used to say, ‘It doesn’t matter whether you spit on a beggar or on a millionaire, it only matters whether you’re caught.’” His manner of speaking, slow, accented, often rambling, was disarming.

Chris was undaunted. “What if I tell you that I don’t spit,” he said.

“We’re all human,” Steiner had said. “We’re all the same.”

“Only some of us don’t get caught.”

Steiner had leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head. Though he dressed well, his clothes always looked rumpled, and this, to a large degree, lent him a friendly and forgiving aspect. The first time Chris saw Max in action in the courtroom, he was stunned to see how Max went for the jugular with the speed and precision of a surgeon. “You seem to have something specific on your mind, Mr. Haye. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

“Fair enough,” Chris had said. “I didn’t come here to handle the leftovers. I came here to build a reputation. I assume that Steiner, McDowell and Fine is no different from any other busy law firm in that there are lucrative cases which it turns away each day. Many of these are dismissed simply because they appear so hopeless that no one in the firm is willing to take them on. Frankly, sir, I think that’s wrong.”

Chris had pleaded his case for the right of every human being to the best possible defense as eloquently as he had pleaded his hypothetical cases in law school.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Haye,” Steiner had said.

“I think I do, sir. I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I must tell you in all candor that there are people here who do not share your egalitarian interpretation of the law.”

Chris knew that Steiner was talking about the other senior partners. “There can be no justice without equality, sir,” he had said.

Steiner grunted. “We’ll see.”

For five years Chris had toiled in the trenches of New York’s subterranean labyrinth known as “Hell’s Circuit.” He began with a small but not an insignificant case that the firm otherwise never would have taken on. To many people’s surprise and subsequent envy, he won it. Soon he was handling successively bigger and more complex cases.

Chris applied himself, determined to work harder still. In a matter of several years he had become so successful that the news media began to follow his cases. Steiner had come into Chris’s office on the eve of Chris’s first anniversary with the firm, and had said, “You have the gift, Chris. You’ve got what I call the velvet hammer: the jury believes you. They see you, not the client. They listen to whatever you say.”

Chris continued to win case after celebrated case. Soon he was constantly in demand; his time was never his own. That was when he had decided to go out on his own.

Now he had his own prestigious Park Avenue law office, with his own handpicked associates, clerks, and because Max Steiner had insisted, a consulting business with his old law firm, who had let him go with extreme reluctance.

That was eighteen months ago. Then Marcus Gable had walked into Chris’s office and everything had been turned upside down.

Marcus Gable was the man standing beside Chris Haye now, waiting for the jury’s verdict. A charge of murder in the second degree had been brought against Gable for the death of his wife, Linda. She had been handling a pistol of his for which he had a permit. She did not know how to use the weapon, Gable had said—hated all firearms, in fact. She wanted it, he had said, out of the bedroom, and was removing it from his night table when it had gone off at point-blank range, killing her instantly.

The prosecution had contended that Linda Gable, having discovered that her husband was having an adulterous affair, confronted him. They had quarreled, the prosecution maintained; the quarrel had escalated into a fight, during which Gable had taken out the gun and had shot his wife.

Through a parade of witnesses, Alix Layne, the assistant DA, had shown that Marcus Gable had a ferocious temper, and that, further, it could be easily set off. The prosecution also established that Gable spent a great deal of time during the week at a small apartment he maintained in Manhattan quite apart from the lavish Fifth Avenue triplex where he and his wife had their residence. Through innuendo, the prosecution tried to establish the existence of Gable’s alleged mistress.

On the other side of the slate Chris had established with his own phalanx of witnesses that the nature of Gable’s high-stakes commodities business made for long and irregular work patterns. Moreover, the overseas nature of the business—especially that sector focusing on the Pacific rim—caused business to be routinely conducted in the small hours of the morning. During the end stages of long and complex negotiations, it was Marcus Gable’s habit to conduct his business from his apartment, because his residence and his wife were sacrosanct from the business side of his life.

In the privacy of his mahogany-paneled office Chris had repeatedly asked Gable about the rumors of his affair. He pointed out that if the prosecution could prove the existence of a mistress, or even place in the minds of the jury the possibility that Gable was fooling around, Gable was in trouble.

“I thought I was innocent until proven guilty,” Gable had said. “The jury has to find me guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt.” He had shrugged his meaty shoulders. “What’s to worry?”

“Let me remind you,” Chris had said, “of the heinous nature of the crime the prosecution has accused you of. Murder in the second degree is a class A-one felony. The definition of murder in the second degree reads, ‘With intent to cause the death of a person, he causes the death of such person.’ ”

“Intent?” Marcus Gable had shouted. “What intent?”

“The prosecution contends that the act of your reaching for your loaded gun constitutes intent.”

“That’s premeditation!”

“No,” Chris had said. “Subdivision One-twenty-five-point-twenty-five states that intentional killing no longer needs to be a component of premeditation or deliberation. It can, in fact, be the result of an instantaneous decision.”

Gable had waved away the legalese. “That bullshit doesn’t matter. That’s not the way it happened.”

Chris had gone doggedly on. “The prosecution will show the jury photos of your wife as she was found by the police. They will drag into court anyone—and I mean anyone—who has ever seen you out with a woman, innocent or otherwise.”

“Now I’ll remind you that I was the one who called the police,” Gable said. “I was there when they arrived. I showed them everything. I let them poke around wherever they wanted.”

Chris had gotten to know Marcus Gable well enough to realize that there was no point in telling him that the police had a right to search anywhere they wanted in the crime scene without Gable’s permission. But bringing that up, he knew, would only precipitate an argument. Instead, Chris lifted a placating hand. “Admittedly, not the actions of a guilty party,” he said. “We’re in agreement on that point. However, I am trying to get you to understand that this is not going to be a clean sparring match.

“Fairness and justice, let us hope and pray, will reside, at least, in the minds and hearts of the jury. But until the moment they leave the courtroom to begin their deliberations, anything goes. The prosecution will not back away from dragging you and everyone around you into the pit. I know the prosecutor, Alix Layne, well. The DA must want this case badly; Alix Layne is his best assistant. She’s clever and dedicated. She’s also headline hungry, and she can smell blood from a city mile off—even when it’s not of her own manufacture.”

“Hey, listen, I’m a veteran of the Vietnam War,” Gable said. “I’ve got a fistful of decorations, and let me tell you that I put my ass on the line for each one of them; they’re all field medals. A lot of guys who came back from that shithole owe their lives to me.

“I expect you to make hay out of that, counselor. I want to see banner headlines, WAR HERO ON TRIAL! That’ll shake the prosecution some. And it ain’t a lie. Hell, I still have nightmares. One’s a doozy. I’m in this steel-lined elevator, see, and I’m going down and down and down. Suddenly the doors open, and I’m awash up to my knees in blood and guts, arms and heads bobbing, dead eyes of my buddies staring up at me, their stiffened fingers beckoning.” Gable blew hard through pursed lips, as if to get rid of excess energy. “I always wake up from it with the sound of a little girl crying in my head.” He gave Chris a look. “Weird, huh?”

Marcus Gable nodded. “Okay, so it won’t be all sweetness and light.” He shrugged. “So what is in life? I’ve been to hell, and come out the other side. So Alix Layne’ll give it to us; we’ll give it right back to her, in spades. I just want to know when I can get back to my business. This fucking thing is costing me a mint every day I gotta park my ass in that courtroom.”

Chris looked at him, a thick-shouldered bantam of a man, with a hard-eyed, combative face, a wide slash of a mouth, handsome if you were generous enough with the term to allow it to encompass the emanation of power. Which, of course, women did all the time.

Especially with this one, Chris guessed. He had the maturity only age could bring, while somehow maintaining the physical attributes of youth. Who knows, Chris thought, perhaps Gable had had a face-lift. He looked more closely at the edges of Gable’s face and, sure enough, he found the tiny, telltale scars.

“By ‘this fucking thing,’ ” Chris said, “I assume you are speaking of your wife’s death.”

“Death has nothing to do with it.” Gable had a way of dismissing as contemptible everyone’s opinion but his own. “It’s this travesty of a trial I’m being forced to sit through.”

Chris wondered whether the word “remorse” was one that Marcus Gable would even recognize. Chris suspected that he would, but he was also sure that Gable found remorse contemptible.

“The truth,” Chris persisted, “is what I am after, Mr. Gable. If you lie to me about anything, I cannot help you to the best of my ability. And if the prosecution should learn a truth about you that you have failed to tell me, you will most certainly be looking at the inside of a federal penitentiary for the next fifteen years at the minimum, before a parole board will give you a hearing.”

“Why are you talking to me about prison?” Gable had said, getting up from the chair he had been sitting in; he had a great deal of kinetic energy. “You’re here to make certain I don’t go to prison.” He was examining a Degas print on the wall. “You know, I bought the original two years ago. I never liked it much, but then I didn’t buy it because I liked it. Linda thought it looked good over the sofa in the living room, I think, I don’t really remember. Anyway, who cares? I sold it at auction last month, and quadrupled my money. The Japs were sucking up everything in sight.” He turned back to Chris. “It was just amazing. Like a bunch of rucking piranha, falling all over themselves to get rid of their overvalued yen while it’s still worth something.”

“And the truth is?”

Gable blinked his long-lashed eyes. “The truth? The truth is that to me art is like anything else: it’s commerce. How much can I get it for, how much will my profit be when I sell it. Color, form, perspective, vision, they don’t mean shit to me. Frankly, I doubt whether they mean shit to anybody.”

Chris stared out the window at the blue auto haze that wreathed Central Park while he counted slowly to ten. “About this mistress of yours,” he said finally.

“That’s a lie!” Gable smashed his fist onto Chris’s desk. His face had turned into a mask, so hard that Chris had the impression that if he hit it with a hammer, it would shatter into pieces. “I loved my wife. Anyone who says different is a liar, okay?”

Chris had nodded. “Okay. But I’ve got to warn you that we’re going to be in the gutter for the next week or so.”

“I’m paying you to do a job,” Gable had said, standing by the door. “Just do it. Don’t ask for my goddamned permission.”

It was then that Chris realized just how much he hated what he was doing. He had always believed in the rights of the individual, as well as in the American legal system. Everyone was entitled to his day in court, a fair trial, impartial judgment by his peers. Upholding this was one of the reasons Chris Haye had gone into law in the first place.

But now, after all his lofty, idealistic debates in graduate school, after his arguments with Max Steiner to take on seemingly unwinnable cases, had come the years in Hell’s Circuit, watching the dregs of humanity slither through the noble halls of justice. Chris had soon found that these people often sneered at the law; they hired smart lawyers like Chris Haye to find the ways to get them off. And Chris, believing that everyone’s rights needed protecting, had complied. He had simply turned his gaze away from them, as one does from a pretty woman with a wart on her chin. He much preferred to bury himself in his work. Personalities, he had told himself, were for psychiatrists to unravel; they weren’t for him to judge.

Now he recognized that in ignoring the kinds of clients he was taking on, he had blinded himself to the kind of lawyer he had become. Without his knowing when it had begun, his absolute belief in the tightness of what he was doing had eroded. Taking on Marcus Gable was merely the last straw. Gable was the instrument through which Chris’s doubts and fears coalesced.

Chris remembered Max Steiner’s words: I hope you know what you’re doing. And his own terribly naive answer, I do, sir. The sad fact was that Chris had not known anything about what he was getting into. Surely Max had known. Why then had he not stopped Chris at the starting point?

Chris wondered how he was going to reconcile these new—and dangerous—feelings with his innate idealism. He not only abandoned the search for an answer, he also pushed the question out of his mind.

He had swallowed the anger he felt toward Marcus Gable, the disappointment he felt in himself, and had gotten on with the work at hand. He proceeded to counter each of the prosecutor’s allegations. He brought in Linda Gable’s friends, her former psychiatrist, the doctors at the institution where she had been consigned on more than one occasion for alcohol and Valium addiction. Alix Layne, the assistant DA, seeing Chris’s intent, had vociferously objected that the line of testimony was immaterial and potentially misleading; she was overruled.

These witnesses recounted Linda Gable’s myriad bouts with depression, repressed anger, and lurid fixation. For example, one of the institution’s doctors testified that for six months Linda Gable believed herself to be possessed by a demon.

The result of this rather sordid descent into Linda Gable’s very private hell was to reveal another side of Marcus Gable. Formerly, the jury had seen him as a hard-nosed man preoccupied with his business. Now Chris gave them the full war record, evidence showing Marcus Gable to be every inch a patriot, a hero, and a very human husband: patient, kind, forgiving. Chris had taken out his special velvet hammer and had nailed home the case, CHRIS HAYE’S WAR HERO CASE, as the New York tabloids had dubbed it. Not the Marcus Gable case.

The only oddity was that Alix Layne had promised to produce Marcus Gable’s alleged mistress, whose testimony, she assured Chris, would damn him. In the end no mistress had been forthcoming and, in Chris’s opinion, it was the prosecution’s case that was doomed.

“Members of the jury,” the judge said now, “have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, your honor,” the foreman said, handing a folded slip of paper to the bailiff who seemed to take forever to get to the judge’s bench.

The judge took the paper, opened it, and read it. He lifted his head, nodded to the foreman.

“As to the charge of murder in the second degree in the death of Linda Gable,” the foreman said, “we, the jury, find Marcus Gable not guilty.”

The courtroom erupted in a release of long-pent-up emotion. Through it all Marcus Gable stood silently, stoically. Until, at length, Chris said, “Mr. Gable, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Gable said. He hadn’t even blinked. “Let’s go split a steak.”

As they left the courtroom, Chris shoved a typewritten sheet into Gable’s hands, the prepared statement that Chris had written, which Gable read to the reporters who clustered around them in the dim, marbled hallway, echoing with the will of justice.

“That’s all, folks,” Chris said after Gable had finished. The press was already throwing out questions. “You’ve heard the full extent of what my client has to say. No further comment.”

He propelled Gable through the clamoring throng. At the top of the wide, stone steps, Alix Layne stopped him.

“I’d like a word with you,” the assistant DA said.

Chris turned to his client. “I’ll be right with you.”

Alix Layne watched Gable with cool gray eyes as he went down toward his stretch limo. “I’m amazed to see him walk,” she said. “A snake like that should have slithered down those steps.” She turned to Chris. “I wish I could say that I admired what you did in there.”

“It was my job.”

Alix snorted. It brought high color to her cheeks. She had a Pre-Raphaelite face, devoid of angles, that belied the sharpness of her personality. Her reddish-brown hair curled below the nape of her neck. A silver choker was at her throat. “It was your job to see to it that a murderer went free?”

“Watch your mouth, counselor,” Chris said. “My client was just exonerated of all wrongdoing.”

“He’s still a murderer,” Alix Layne said. “Maybe the three of us—me, you, and Gable—are the only people who know it. But that doesn’t change the fact. And if I’d gotten all the evidence I was promised, the whole world would know it.”

“Take some sound professional advice. Shut up,” Chris said. He was surprised at how angry he felt, betrayed almost. Could it have anything to do with the fact that he found the assistant DA attractive? How many times since he had met her had he considered asking her out? During their brief conversations in the court hallways between trials he had liked everything about her but her old-fashioned sense of herself. She seemed stiff, as if uncomfortable with her own sexuality. That she disapproved of his way of approaching the law was obvious; that she found him attractive despite her qualms was just as clear. “Accept the fact that you lost. You had a weak case, and the media is going to have a field day picking it—and you—apart. Because I’ll tell you quite frankly that if you go on this way, I’ll have to press slander and defamation-of-character charges on behalf of my client.”

“That would be a laugh, now, wouldn’t it?” Alix Layne’s eyes were fiery. “God, but I’ve had it up to here with smug bastards like you who charge a fortune to get slimes like Gable off under the guise of this pious attitude you feed to the press. Everyone deserves the best defense. Oh, yes. You forget to mention when giving interviews that it takes two hundred and fifty dollars an hour to get that defense. It’s so spurious, it makes me sick. Tell me, when was the last time you took on a pro bono case just because you believed in your client? You’re not a lawyer, Mr. Haye, you’re a showman. You belong under a tent, along with the jugglers, the fire-eaters, and the bottlers of snake oil.” She gestured behind her at the stone facade of the Criminal Courts building. “Haven’t you figured out yet that you have no place here in the halls of justice?”

Before Chris could reply, she was gone, swallowed up in the throng that was swirling out of the front entrance. He felt depressed rather than angry. It was as if she had peeked inside his head, and pulled out the dirt.

“Shit,” Chris said to himself as he hurried down the steps, and out into the gray day. It was raining much harder now and, shivering, he made a dash for Gable’s waiting limo. He climbed into the car, settled in next to Gable.

“What’s with the limp, counselor? I didn’t notice it before.”

Chris gave a quick grimace. “It’s the rain.” He disliked being reminded of the pain in his leg. “It’s nothing. An old hip injury.” Inside the car it was as dark as a hearse.

“Sports or the war?” Gable asked. He had already poured himself a glass of champagne from a split that had been ready and cooling in the limo’s mini-refrigerator.

“Both,” Chris said. But he was still thinking about what Alix Layne had said.

“Yeah?” For the first time since he had walked into Chris’s office, Marcus Gable looked at Chris with some interest. “Hold on,” he said, and turned to the driver. “The Grill, Eddie,” he said. “And step on it. I’m starving.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Gable.”

The limo slid easily through the backwater warrens of downtown Manhattan, ancient streets propelled into the atomic age by dreams of making fortunes from palladium, cocoa, and frozen pork bellies.

“Okay,” Gable said, “so tell me what happened to your hip.”

Chris looked at him. “Mr. Gable,” he said, “you’ve just been found innocent of killing your wife. Don’t you have any reaction to that?”

Gable squinted. “What is it you want, a pat on the back from me? Why? All you did was your job. It was what I paid you to do.” He shrugged. “Okay. I liked the little speech you concocted for me. Very classy. And it’ll make good copy in tomorrow’s papers.”

“Are you human?” Chris said. “Don’t you have any emotions at all?”

“Listen, counselor, whatever emotions I’ve got, you can be damn sure that neither you nor anyone out there”—he gestured to the world beyond the tinted windows—“is ever going to see them.”

But after three oversized Scotch-and-waters at the Grill, it was a different story.

“What are you,” Gable said, “thirty-nine, forty? Sure. I just turned fifty. What does it mean to me? It means that I’m another year further away from the war.” They were seated at the best power table in a fashionable Second Avenue steak house. The scuffed white floor was strewn with sawdust. The walls were covered with black-and-white photos of entertainment stars, autographed with self-glorifying personal messages to Don, the Grill’s owner.

“The war,” Gable was saying. “Sure, I was changed by the war. How could you be over there in that stinking hellhole without being changed? The only way not to be changed by the war was to die. Anyone tells you different is full of shit.”

The maître d’ approached then; seeing the two men deep in discussion, he discreetly left them alone.

“I’ll tell you,” Gable went on, “I saw plenty of guys who refused to change. Jesus and Mary, they were goners. You could see it in their eyes. They knew they were in hell, but they wanted no part of it. I’ll tell you, the only creatures who survive hell are demons. And y’know what? It was all a matter of power. Those who understood the essential anarchy of the war, made sense of it and survived. Everyone else was, in one way or another, destroyed. Humans withered and died there in those napalm-filled jungles, those booby-trapped rice paddies.”

Gable rolled some Scotch around in his mouth before swallowing. “You know, ’cause you were there, that the rice crop depends on the rainy season. Well, one year I was in ’Nam, the rainy season came early. It was red. Blood red, d’you understand? A hundred grunts blown to smithereens, their blood fertilizing the fucking rice.” Gable downed the last of his drink.

“One Charlie I captured told me, laughing, that it was going to be a bumper rice crop that year. You can bet the sonuvabitch wasn’t laughing when I cut off his dick, and fed it to him.” He picked up the menu. “Wanna order? I gotta put something in my stomach.”

Chris did not know whether to laugh or to cry. He wondered what to make of this man. From what he had been able to see, Marcus Gable was a fascinating conundrum, a kind of Chinese puzzle in a hideous yet magnetic exterior. Every time you thought you had gotten to know him, another aspect of his personality would pop up like a goblin in an amusement park’s house of horrors.

Gable ordered the double sirloin, home-fried potatoes, and fried onion rings. Chris chose the grilled tuna.

“Fish,” Gable said when the waiter had left. “It all stinks. I smell fish, and all I smell is blood.” He shrugged. “The war again, I guess. After ’Nam, I could never bear the sight of fish. Couple of years ago a buddy of mine invited me out on his boat. He runs it out of East Bay Bridge, one of those places on Long Island. A great, beautiful gray and green sixty-five-footer named Monique, after his French mistress.

“Anyway, we went fishing for tuna. I’ll say this, he’s a helluva sport fisherman. He hooked a quarter-ton monster within twenty minutes. ‘Hey, Marcus,’ he said a coupla hours later when he was landing the monster, ‘come take a look at this baby.’ I didn’t want to, but Monique was there, so what else could I do? So I took a look, and vomited.” Gable began to laugh. “Can you believe it? All over his fucking fish. Jesus.”

At that moment, as if on some kind of sadistic cue, the food arrived. Gable was not a man to talk while he ate, so there was silence for some time. He ate quickly, as if there were a board meeting he had to get to. When he pushed his plate away from him, Chris was only half through with his tuna. That did not stop Gable from talking again, or from ordering a double espresso with sambuca.

“So,” he said, somewhat more expansively, “tell me what happened to your hip. You get hit in ’Nam?”

“No,” Chris said. He had not, in fact, been in Vietnam, as Gable had assumed. He was as ashamed of that all over again as he would have been if he were talking with his brother, Terry. “In Paris.”

“France?” Gable stirred the liquor into his coffee. “Hey, come on. Don’t tell me you were fighting a war in France.”

“In a way,” Chris said. “I was in the Tour de France, the bicycle race.”

Gable laughed. “You call a fucking bike race a war? Oh, Jesus, that’s good!”

“I was part of a nine-man team,” Chris said, “that biked nineteen hundred miles in twenty-two days. We started in a town called Roubaix, went into Belgium and Holland, through the French Alps, and ended up in Paris.” He was through with his fish. “Believe me, it was a war, all right.”

“Not like ’Nam.” Gable said it in an odd tone of voice. It seemed to Chris almost as if he were speaking about a woman, or a precious object he considered to be his personal property.

“No,” Chris said. “It was very different.”

“Like pulling a fucking tuna out of the sea,” Gable said. “Hard work, yeah. Like you said, maybe even a war. Well, okay, I threw up all over the fucking fish, like I said. But, hell, it turned out to be worth it, ’cause Monique took me below, licked the sweat off my face, stuck her tongue into my mouth while she opened her bathing suit. The goddamned thing snapped under the crotch. She fucked my brains out while my buddy was wrestling with that big sonuvabitch tuna right over our heads.”

Chris could hardly believe what he was hearing. This was the point of Gable’s little fish fable? A lesson on how to cheat on your wife while cuckolding your friend? “What about your wife?” he asked.

“What about her?”

“Wasn’t she there?”

“It happens she wasn’t,” Gable said. “But what if she was? She wouldn’t have known any more about it than my buddy did.”

“You told me that you loved your wife, Mr. Gable.”

“Yeah, so what? I told you a lot of things, counselor, and judging by your tone of voice, I’m damned glad I did. You’ve just confirmed my faith in my own judgment of how to play you. You’re a fucking Elliot Ness, you know that?”

Chris was sitting very still. “Are you saying that you lied to me?”

“I’m not saying anything one way or the other,” Gable said. “You’re the genius here. You read between the lines.”

“There is a mistress.”

“Counselor, I do believe your face has gone white.”

“You fought with your wife. It all happened just as Alix Layne contended.” He watched with a cold kind of dread creeping through him as the wolfish grin expanded on Gable’s lips. “You took out the gun and—”

“Pardon me, Mr. Haye.” The waiter had reappeared. “There is a call for you.”

“Just a minute,” Chris said. He could not tear his gaze from Marcus Gable’s terrible face.

“They said it was urgent,” the waiter said.

“I said I’d be there in a minute,” Chris said harshly.

When the waiter had gone, he went on, “You took out the gun and you killed her, didn’t you? You murdered your wife.”

“Do you really think I’d tell you that?”

Chris, thinking, What have I done?, leaned across the plate-strewn table. “I just saved your skin, Gable. I think I deserve the truth.”

Gable finished off his espresso, wiped his mouth. “Now I’m gonna tell you the way of the world, counselor. You don’t deserve shit, and here’s why. You’re charging me two hundred and fifty bucks an hour and, all things considered, I’d have to say you’re worth every penny of it. You send me your bill, and my check will be messengered to you the same day. That’s how I do business.” He stood up. “And business is all this was.”

“Are you crazy,” Chris said, “or am I?” And all the time Alix Layne’s accusing face hung before him. “I believed you. I wouldn’t have taken the case otherwise.”

“Oh, come off it, counselor,” Gable said. He was grinning as he swept his arm outward. “There’s nobody here but us chickens. You can save all that constitutional garbage for the media; you’ve worked it out, you’ve learned that’s what they eat up. It’s why they love you. It’s sure as hell why I wanted you to defend me.”

“I told you, Gable, that I wanted the truth from you.”

“Sure. Sure. I understand. From the beginning I told you all you needed to know. That isn’t gonna change now.” He threw a couple of hundred-­dollar bills onto the table. “Counselor, you’re the master when you step inside a courtroom but, otherwise, you don’t seem to know shit about anything. You have to learn that in life all questions don’t get answered.”

Five minutes later Chris took the call, and was told that his brother had died in Tourrette-sur-Loup, France.

Lieutenant Seve Guarda watched the ceiling drool. It was pouring outside, and it was clear that this tenement he was in was in desperate need of repair ten years ago. Now it was no doubt being held up by the grimy buildings on either side of it.

Drip, drip, drip. The drool became a full-fledged leak. Lifting his head, Seve could hear the rats behind the walls, squealing as they scrambled to get out of the way of the encroaching damp.

Seve was in the darkness of the hallway on the topmost floor of this tenement. One foot still on the last stair riser, he clung to the darkness; it was his most trustworthy ally now. Through a window cemented open by decades of city soot, Seve could hear the swift, musical jabber of Cantonese, its broad sentence-ending interrogatives like a song of the sea. Through the miasma of the tenement’s urine stink, he could scent star anise and Szechuan peppercorns, roasting pork and drying skate. Seve had once been in Hong Kong on official business, and the confluence of smells here was identical. Outside, beyond a garbage-strewn alley, was New York’s Pell Street not Hong Kong’s Ladder Street; but, otherwise, he knew, there wasn’t much difference.

Seve, his service revolver at the ready, was listening very carefully. He risked a quick glance at his watch. It had been nearly seven minutes since they had had any communication with Peter Chun: given Chun’s personality, a dangerous sign.

Seve went over again in his mind the salient facts relating to the situation. Peter Chun—known as Loong Chun, the Dragon, among the Chinese—was at the head of a widespread drug ring. It was said that Chun owned half of Chinatown, and what businesses he didn’t own paid him a monthly tithe to remain in existence. Seve remembered the roaring fire that had engulfed three stores on Pell Street late last year. It was never proven, but the consensus among Seve’s people was that Loong Chun had used those businesses as an example to others.

Long before that, however, Seve’s operation had been in place. He had a mandate from the mayor himself to break the drug trafficking that threatened to strangle Chinatown and all of New York with it. Seve had been chosen because, in part, he had spent eighteen months with the DEA in Hong Kong, Thailand, and the treacherous mountains of Burma’s Shan Plateau, tracing the route of the tears of the poppy, as the Asians called opium. He was still connected with the DEA via their InterNat-Link course on the global implications of drug smuggling.

And so he understood from every angle what it would take to burrow inside Chinatown to exorcise the menace represented by Dragon Chun. He also spoke Cantonese fluently, which helped immeasurably. All the Chinese policemen under his command trusted him implicitly. They would follow him into the sea if he gave the command.

But he had been chosen for another, equally important reason. It was well known that if Seve Guarda believed in one thing, it was the line from Blaise Pascal that he had had reproduced on a piece of polished stone. It sat on his desk where otherwise his name plate would have been. It read: “The property of power is to protect.”

Seve did not have to look behind him to sense his backup. Two of his men crouched halfway up the stairs in absolute darkness. For an instant the smell of oil from their drawn guns came to him on a moist gush of wind, before being overwhelmed by the other smells of the environment.

Ten minutes since the Dragon had been heard from.

At least everyone else is out of the building, Seve told himself. It had taken a full six months for Seve’s people to discover the brothel that Loong Chun frequented, seven more to worm their way inside. Jesus, Seve thought. How many sleepless nights, how many packages of Maalox, how many busted relationships did that represent? He had lost count a long time ago.

Thirteen months of the most intensive work of his career. All in an effort to apprehend one man: Peter Loong Chun. The trap had been set, and was about to be sprung, when a pair of rookie beat cops, their hearts full of zealous duty, had broken into the brothel to make routine arrests. What had they been doing here? Seve asked himself for the hundredth time. They should have been briefed by the precinct duty commander before beginning their shift. This block was strictly out of bounds.

But, in any event, there they were, walking right in on the Dragon, whose bodyguards had shot them both. And when Richard Hu, one of Seve’s surveillance team, had killed the bodyguards in rushing the apartment, Chun had shot him.

Christ, Seve thought, three officers. From triumph to disaster in the blink of an eye.

The only thing Seve knew for certain was that the Dragon was still in there with a female hostage, no doubt the woman he had been with when the rookie blues had burst in on him.

Now the objective had shifted. The apprehension of Peter Loong Chun had become secondary, and Seve was concentrating on shifting the focus of his mind. Because it was his job to extricate alive everyone in the brothel. Whoever had been hurt or killed up there was his responsibility. That included the blues. It was his stakeout—he should have seen the rookies and intercepted them before they could get into the building. Somehow that hadn’t happened. Seve would find out why; that was his methodical way. But not until the crisis was over.

Now that the rats had gotten away from the wet, it was quiet in the tenement. Still as a tomb. Outside, the dark sky rumbled.

Seve peered into the gloom. He could see the doorway to the apartment. Keeping his eye on it, he slipped along the hallway. He heard his men reach the landing. When he was within arm’s reach of the door, it opened inward a crack, and Seve heard a woman’s high-pitched scream. This was followed by a stream of Cantonese invective spat out so rapidly that Seve caught only parts of it. Then absolute silence.

The door remained open a crack. From it, brilliant yellow light poured into the hallway, illuminating rain from the open window running along the floorboards.

“Cheng neih maahn maan-gong?” Seve asked. Could you speak slowly?

Another stream of invective. This time Seve understood every disgusting form his mother was supposed to have taken. Seve ignored this; his concern now was for the young woman.

“Ni-go neuih-jai jouh-mat yeh a?” he asked. What happened to the girl?

An evil peal of laughter from behind the door. “Keuih sin-dai.” She slipped and fell.

“I don’t believe you.” Playing it straight.

A rustling from behind the door. Then, abruptly, the door was pulled back and a Chinese girl’s face was revealed. She was pushed harshly forward so that Seve could see the muzzle of a gun pressed hard against the bone behind her right ear.

Seve had only a split second in which to see the expression on the girl’s white face, but it was all he needed. Her terror filled the hallway between them.

“But I’ll bet you’ll believe this,” Peter Loong Chun said.

“No!” Seve shouted at the same moment that Chun pulled the trigger. Blood spurted from the place where the girl’s right ear had been. She was screaming as the Dragon pulled her back inside the apartment.

Sonuvabitch, Seve thought, watching the blood slide down the walls to mingle with the rain. I’ve got to get in there. Creeping slowly down the hallway.

“Come any closer and I’ll blow her brains all over your clean, white shirt.”

The proximity of Loong’s voice brought Seve up short. He stood as still as the shadows around him, a part of them.

Keep your head, Seve cautioned himself. “Who else is in there?”

“What do you care? She’s the only one who’s still alive.”

“Give it up, Loong,” Seve said, deliberately using Chun’s Chinese name. “It’s hopeless here. Any way you look at it, you’re going down for the count.”

“I’ve heard about you,” the Dragon said. “The loh faan who speaks.” Loh faan meant barbarian, which was how Chinese thought of any Caucasian. “I should blow your brains out as well.”

Which was all the opening Seve needed. “I’ll give you the chance, then,” he said. “Me for the girl. A straight swap, okay? She’s an innocent, Loong. A victim. Whereas, me, I’m after your guts. Bad joss to kill her now for no reason.”

“If I kill her, you can bet it’ll be for a reason,” Loong said.

“But it’s no gamble,” Seve said. Gambling and sex were two things that Peter Loong Chun could not pass up; Seve knew he was fanatic about both. “She’s already hurt. She can’t harm you. I can, and I will, given the chance. Or aren’t you man enough to handle the ultimate gamble of life and death.”

Silence. Rain beating against the open window, gurgling along the hallway. The rats were quiescent, waiting, watching.

“Maybe you’ve got a point,” Loong said at last, and Seve let out a long exhalation. “First, get your goons off the floor.”

Seve turned and gestured for his backup to retreat to the staircase. They went reluctantly. He gave them their instructions. “All right,” he told Loong.

“Now put your piece on the floor where I can see it.”

“What kind of gamble is that?” Seve asked. “I’ve seen what your gun can do.”

The apartment door squealed open all the way. “We’ll put them down together,” Loong said.

Seve bent slowly, placed his revolver on the floor of the hallway. At the same time, Chun put his gun down in Seve’s view.

“Now the girl,” Seve said.

“Get over here first,” Chun said. “Do you think I’m just going to let her go like that?”

Seve took a deep breath, walked forward until he was at the open doorway. He squinted in the harsh glare of the lights. He faced Peter Loong Chun, a rail-thin man of medium height with the wide, moon face typical of many Cantonese. He had hold of the Chinese girl, and now he came away from the window where he had been surveilling the immediate environment. Seve tried not to look at the girl because that would show weakness, but his peripheral vision showed him that she was near to fainting. Her right side was stained with blood.

“Come in,” Loong said.

“Let the girl go first.”

“You heard what I said.” Loong brandished a switchblade. The steel gleamed in the glare of the apartment’s lights.

“We had a deal.”

That evil laugh again. “I don’t make deals with loh faan,” Loong snorted derisively. “You think because you can speak you’re anything more than a barbarian?” He spat at Seve’s feet, threw the girl aside, took a quick step forward. The edge of the switchblade grazed Seve’s throat. “I never intended to let her go—”

A kind of wolfish smile suffused Loong’s face as fully as the sun lights up a drab winter landscape. Its force transformed him. “I gambled on trapping you, and I won.”

“Let me at least see to the girl.”

“Not a chance, loh faan.”

Seve immediately understood; Chun fed on power. He was the kind of man—and Seve had encountered many before—for whom a weapon was a drug. Others might be content with money or women, but Loong existed to impose his will on others.

Another time, another place, the Shan, filled Seve’s mind for a moment. General Kiu looming larger than life, as he almost always did in Seve’s memory; and the scar, the omnipresent evidence of General Kiu’s “hospitality,” that ran just beneath Seve’s left ear down the side of his neck, began to throb.

Like Peter Loong Chun, General Kiu had been obsessed with power. Loong might be the Dragon of Chinatown, but General Kiu had been the Dragon—the high warlord—of Burma’s Shan Plateau, in the heart of the Golden Triangle, where the majority of the world’s opium was harvested.

Up against Loong now, Seve perhaps understood that he owed his nemesis a debt of gratitude. For it was General Kiu who had taught Seve the value of Sun Tzu’s principles in The Art of War.

“War is based on deception,” General Kiu had said. “Move when it is advantageous, and create changes in the situation.” Through the terrible pain that General Kiu had inflicted upon him—perhaps, who knows?, even because of it—Seve had never forgotten those words. And when, months later, he had finally made his way back home, the first thing he did was take out a translation of Sun Tzu’s classic from the Forty-second Street Library. He read it so many times that eventually he could recall entire sections at will.

Seve looked Peter Loong Chun in the eye and thought, War is based on deception. Move when it is advantageous, and create changes in the situation.

Seve smiled. “What will you do with me?” His eyes held Chun’s, and he forced a fatuous tone into his voice. “I’ve dealt with you Chinese for years. Will you kill me? I doubt it. I am your only way out of this deathtrap. And I know that you want out, Loong.”

The Dragon’s face twisted. “You don’t know anything, barbarian.” He drew blood as he slid the blade along the skin of Seve’s throat.

“I know what face is,” Seve said, mimicking the kind of braggadocio he had overheard on his tour of Southeast Asia. It was, unfortunately, indicative of the American arrogance abroad: a little knowledge made any stupid loh faan an expert. “I know that you’ve got to walk out of here or risk losing your influence in Chinatown.” The Asians despised such overconfidence.

“You’re stupid,” Loong said, feeling more and more that he was getting the measure of this barbarian, and was, thus, on surer footing. “But that’s to my advantage, isn’t it?”

Loong had the addict’s habit of asking questions to which, clearly, he already had the answers. Seve noted this even as he was aware that he was creating changes in the situation.

“I’ll kill you, all right,” Loong went on, “and no one will know it. Your goons will let me out of here for fear I’ll kill you if they stop me.” He laughed. “Only thing is, you’ll already be dead.”

Seve’s mask was fear; this—and only this—was what Loong must see and, so, react to. Meanwhile, Seve had effected the change, and it was this: Loong had been afraid when Seve had first confronted him, before Loong had taken full command. Fear was an adversary of inconstant properties. It could engender caution, strength, even resolve. These were all Seve’s enemies. He needed Loong to be confident, assured, and thus incautious and vulnerable. Seve, by appearing foolish, had caused Loong’s own obsession with control to dissipate his fear.

Loong was having fun with Seve, more fun, even, than he had had with the Chinese girl. That was good, because since Seve had begun the change, the Dragon had not bothered to return to the window to recheck the environment. He did not see Seve’s backup team scaling the tenement’s back fire escape. He was not even aware of them until they had entered the room through the window.

Then Loong swung around, his right arm up to throw the knife. Seve grabbed the wrist with his right hand, slammed his left elbow against Loong’s, bent the cocked arm quickly backward until he heard the sharp crack of the bone splintering.

Loong cried out and, whirling, smashed the edge of his left hand into Seve’s shoulder.

Ignoring the pain, Seve delivered a pair of liver kites that doubled Loong over. He collapsed at Seve’s feet.

“You okay, Lieutenant?” one of his men asked.

Seve nodded. “How’re the blues?”

“Dead,” the other man in the backup team said.

“And Hu?” Hu was Seve’s man who had gone in after the rookies.

“Gone.”

“Jesus.” There were tears in Seve’s eyes. Richard Hu had been twenty-two years old. Seve had had dinner at his house just last month. Richard had wanted Seve to meet his wife and five-week-old daughter.

“See to the others,” he told the backups. “Get the meds up here on the double. I don’t know how badly the girl’s hurt. And get the coroner and the forensic people up here right away.” They scrambled to do his bidding.

Seve knelt next to the girl. Gently, he lifted her up by her shoulders. It was his first good look at her; she could not be more than sixteen, he thought sadly.

Her eyes open, wide and rolling like an animal’s. She began to scream, and he said in Cantonese, “It’s all right. I’m a police officer. You’re safe now.” He repeated it in English.

He could hear the sirens now, as the ambulances approached. They’ll need a fleet of ambulances to take care of this mess, he thought.

“Younger sister,” Seve said, using the familiar form of Cantonese address, “what’s your name?”

“Lei-fa.” Plum blossom. She had given him her Chinese, rather than her English name. She had laid her trust in the palm of his hand.

Lei-fa clung to him, trembling. “I’m cold,” she said.

Seve held her more tightly. He looked up at one of his men. “Where’s the goddamned doctor?”

“I’ll see,” one of them said.

More people were streaming into the apartment now, and Lei-fa began to whimper. Seve stroked her hair. It was matted in places by her drying blood. He had no way of telling how serious her wound was, and this worried him.

When, eventually, the doctor appeared, it was with a pair of paramedics and a stretcher in tow. Seve’s man had done his job well.

“Don’t leave me, elder brother, I beg you.” A whisper was all she could manage. Her head fell back on his lap, and her huge, luminous eyes filled up his world just as if she were his child.

She would not go without him, and Seve kept hold of her hand all the way downstairs. He could feel the tremors rippling through her, and he thought, Jesus, I don’t know how she’s holding together.

They went through the police barricade, passing before the curious and the morbidly curious, shuffling like an audience restless for the performance to begin. It was odd, he thought, how death brought out the worst in human beings. Was it only because they longed to see the sight of blood or a protruding bone? Or was it, as Seve suspected, something deeper, more sinister? Was the voyeur in people aroused by trauma? Did some dark, centuries-old part of the brain become excited by disaster?

All through the short ambulance ride to Beekman Downtown Hospital, Seve held Lei-fa’s hand, leaning over her, whispering in her ear as the doctor worked on the side of her head.

He left her only at the doors to the operating room, and that was because the surgeon would not allow him inside. Lei-fa’s slim fingers had slipped from his callused hand as the shot they had given her took effect.

Seve watched that face disappear into the sterile operating room, peaceful now in unconsciousness. But he was seeing her as he first had, with the terror emanating from her, filling up the stinking, dank hallway.

He went to get a cup of coffee, and when he returned, he saw Diana Ming, one of his undercover people, waiting for him. He was somewhat surprised to see her; this was not her beat.

“How you doing?” she asked.

“Okay,” he said, nodding. He took a long gulp of the coffee. It had no taste, but that was all right. It was the caffeine he was after. He was very tired.

“That bastard Loong hurt you any?”

“Not much.” He looked at Diana. Suddenly he did not want to ask her why she was here.

“Well, you look awful,” she said, indicating his bloodstained clothes. “I brought you a fresh shirt.”

“Thanks,” he said, taking it from her and beginning to strip off his shirt. It was stiff with blood.

“How about we sit down?” Diana said. “I could use the rest, I’ve been on my feet since three this morning.”

They headed for a row of molded plastic seats. Seve offered her his coffee, and she took a swig while he buttoned up his new shirt. She was a good officer, smart and quite fearless. She had just passed her sergeant’s exam with the best marks of the group. Seve admired her very much.

“Boss,” she said, “I’ve got some bad news. I guess there’s no proper way to tell you.”

Seve was watching her.

“It’s your brother, Dominic. He’s been killed.”

Seve thought that the ceiling had fallen in on him. He could not breathe. He tried to say something, but his throat was clotted with emotion. Then, as if through a thick haze, he heard himself asking, “What happened?”

Diana told him everything she had been given. “It’s not much, I know,” she concluded. “I’m here to take you up to Connecticut, to the church. The forensic team is waiting for you there.”

Without saying a word, Seve got up. He searched out the men’s room, went in, and stared at himself in the mirror. But memories rendered him momentarily blind. He thought of Maggie. What a pair of thighs. How she would wrap them around his neck to pull him into bed, and afterward. But Seve remembered her more for her patience. She never complained when he couldn’t make dinner—or anything else later; or when he was dragged out of bed by the phone shrilling at three in the morning; or when he had to cancel that weekend in the Poconos, good God, she had been already in the car, waiting when he had had to tell her, Sorry, no can do.

No, Seve thought, with a great deal of regret, Maggie never complained. But one day she wasn’t there. She had changed her phone number to an unlisted one. He had considered getting the new number from the phone company, but then had thought better of it. What would he do once he had it? What did he have to say to her? He knew very well why she had left, and nothing had changed. His job came before anyone else, first, last, and always.

For years Seve Guarda had devoted himself to the law. And for all that time he had been as faithful to its tenets as if he were an acolyte in the service of God.

The comparison was not inappropriate. The law was, indeed, a kind of religion for him, inasmuch as he believed it to be the moral backbone of society—any society. To transgress the law was to allow the encroachment of chaos, it was to hear the trumpets of anarchy blowing, it was to feel the chill wind of the beast endangering all the good that society had wrought over the ages. It was something, in short, that he could not tolerate. It was like a revelation to him, as powerful as the piercing, white light of God striking Thomas Aquinas.

Which was why Maggie, who had sought to touch his callused soul, had failed to budge him from his moral rectitude. Seve Guarda was a monk bound in the service of a higher calling.

Dominic is dead, he thought, and I’m thinking of Maggie. What the hell’s wrong with me? And then, in a flash, he understood. The monk that was Seve was disconnected from the many quotidian normalcies of life—the loves of family and friends had taken a backseat. Without warning Maggie had gone. Now Dominic had been taken from him.

Seve blinked. What he saw in the mirror was a diamond-shaped face with intense features, high cheekbones, and what Maggie had called a cruel mouth. He saw dark eyes, smooth, flawless skin that made it impossible to tell his age. He saw thick, black hair and a powerful neck. He saw brown eyes that stared back at him with a shocked, unbelieving expression. But it wasn’t his own face he was seeing; it was his brother’s.

He struck out with his right fist. Pain exploded up his arm as the glass and the image shattered. He thought he saw blood spraying. Somehow that made him feel better, but not much.

When he returned, he had some paper towel wrapped around his lacerated right hand. Diana looked at the blood seeping through, but kept her mouth shut.

Seve stood just outside the doors of the operating room. He did not sit down, he did not say another word to Diana. He knew that he should get going. It would be a long ride in heavy traffic at this hour to New Canaan, and there were no doubt many people waiting on his arrival. And later, of course, he would need to see Richard Hu’s wife; that duty was his alone. But he could not seem to get himself to move.

Inside, he wept for his baby brother. But that did not change the fact that Dominic was dead; nothing could bring him back. And for Seve it seemed as if time had ceased to have any relevance at all.

“La Porte à la Nuit,” Milhaud said. A tall, distinguished man, he held aloft the dagger that had been in Terry Haye’s metal briefcase. “The Doorway to Night.”

Milhaud had a high, wide forehead, the kind of noble Gallic nose vain Americans tried by surgery to imitate, and a long, deeply cleft chin. He wore his wiry salt-and-pepper hair long enough to affect the look of a mane. While he was well beyond his middle years, he possessed a strength of spirit that easily dwarfed the energy of men thirty years his junior. Overall, one might say that he had the aspect of a great politician or film star, that larger-than-life luminescence that filled whatever room in which he found himself.

“Huph!” Milhaud gave off a disgusted grunt and heaved the dagger across the room. It hit the opposite wall, missing the window by inches, but its blade did not shatter. He stared out the window across the Seine at that part of Paris he loved most: the Parc du Champ de Mars and the Ecole Militaire, on the Left Bank.

“Plastic,” he said. “An advanced form of polymeric resin that quite effectively apes the properties of jade.” He strode across the room, picked up the dagger. “But it can’t shatter the way jade does because it isn’t jade.”

He walked back to his handmade ebony and partridgewood desk, looking thoughtful. As he did so, he slapped the flat of the polymer blade again and again into his palm. “It’s a fake, of course,” he said.

“Then it is useless to us,” Dante said.

“Not in the least,” Milhaud said. “This fake tells us a great deal. For instance, that Terry Haye was far cannier than Monsieur Mabuse gave him credit for.”

With this implied accusation Milhaud turned to Dante. “It seems as if Monsieur Mabuse killed Terry Haye prematurely.”

“I don’t understand,” Dante said. “We ransacked Terry Haye’s house. I saw to the details myself. There was nothing there, no clue as to what he had done with the real Porte à la Nuit.”

“However, you did find this,” Milhaud said. He picked up a postcard from his desk. On the face was a glossy photo of the pre-Alps of Haute-Provence. In typical fashion the colors were so oversaturated that the lavender that covered the slopes was purple. Far in the background, one could just make out the walls of Tourrette-sur-Loup’s southernmost facade.

Milhaud turned it over. Its reverse contained a handwritten message. It read:

Chris,

Hope this won’t take as long to reach you as it’s been since we’ve been in touch. Hard to believe its been ten years. Ten years! Tell me, how do two brothers ignore each other for a decade?

Anyway, I hope this finds you well and prosperous. I understand that you have become le monstre sacré. I’m sending this on ahead—as a kind of warning, I guess. I need to see you, so I’m coming to New York next week. I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t important, so I trust you’ll arrange to be in town. Until then . . .

It was addressed, but unsigned. It was dated the same day Terry Haye had had his meet with M. Mabuse. And the last thing Terry Haye had written on the postcard was “P.S.” But his life had ended before he had had a chance to write it. Milhaud wondered what Terry Haye had meant to append to his message to his brother, Chris, le monstre sacré, the superstar. He also wondered whether this postcard and the Doorway to Night were in some way linked.

Milhaud went around his desk and sat down. He tapped the corner of the card against his palm as he had done the phony dagger moments before. He hummed quietly to himself. It was the Agnus Dei.

I would bet anything, he thought, that Terry Haye has somehow involved his brother in New York in his enterprise. But in what way? As adviser, caretaker, or heir apparent?

M. Mabuse was in New York now on other business. For a moment Milhaud considered having him pay Chris Haye a visit. Then he reconsidered. Instinct told him to move cautiously, following the highly charged events of the past twenty-four hours. There was another way to discover if the real Doorway to Night had found its way from brother to brother. The postcard would be his key, Soutane would be his unwitting messenger. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Better for the flow of events to show him the course he must now take in order to gain possession of the priceless artifact.

“And what about Mademoiselle Sirik?” he said. He never used Soutane’s first name with his people, never gave them any hint that he had anything other than a professional interest in her. “Does she know about us? Specifically, does she know that you have been through Terry Haye’s apartment?”

“Je ne peux pas la sentir,” Dante said.

Milhaud made the same kind of face he would have made had Dante passed wind. “You can’t stand her because she is a Buddhist, and you believe in nothing. Her mind-set is totally alien to you,” he said. “I am constrained to point out that this is a failing on your part. I have tried to educate you in the ways of God, but you seem incapable of absorbing the concept of faith.” He ran his finger along the false dagger. “Haye’s apartment is hers now. It would be well if you kept that in mind.”

“She’s a bitch.”

“You say that because she’s Khmer,” Milhaud said, looking at Dante’s murderous eyes, thinking, Really, you Vietnamese are all alike. “Nevertheless, you would do well to keep in mind that she’s very smart. And she wouldn’t hesitate to cut your heart out if she ever discovered that you were involved in the death of her lover. We already know how she feels about Vietnamese, don’t we?”

Dante grinned.

“That idea really turns you on.” Milhaud hid his disgust, his rage at the names Dante was calling her. This is only an animal, he thought, what can be expected of such a poor creature?

“The bitch knows nothing,” Dante said. “I made certain of that.”

Milhaud nodded. “Good.” He handed the postcard to Dante. “See that this gets back into Terry Haye’s apartment. And make sure that it’s left in a prominent position. The sooner Mademoiselle Sirik finds it, the better.”

Dante took the postcard, glanced at his watch. “You have lunch with Monsieur LoGrazie in ten minutes,” he said.

And Milhaud thought, Good dog. You’re dangerous, to be sure, but you’re also loyal. He rose, smoothed down the front of his jacket. “I’m ready,” he said.

M. LoGrazie was either a wealthy American importer-exporter or a high-level capo in the Society of Seven Families—also known as the Mafia—according to how deeply one probed beneath his glossy exterior. Needless to say, Milhaud had probed quite deeply.

M. LoGrazie, Milhaud thought, had that darkly handsome, oily look evinced by the American actors trying to play Italians in The God­father. But they could never be European, since they were defined by the softness and lassitude engendered by their lush country-club existence. Nevertheless, M. LoGrazie felt compelled to emulate them. And, in attempting to appear tragic and heroic at the same time, he managed to be neither.

For all that, even though he was an American, Milhaud liked M. LoGrazie. He tried to look at la situation en macro, and not hold it against him.

M. LoGrazie was not only smart, he was clever, a quality Milhaud could appreciate. He—and, Milhaud could only suppose, his superiors for whom he spoke—had an impressive grasp of global politics, which meant that Europeans resided somewhere at the Society’s heart.

In addition, Milhaud was pleased to see how well M. LoGrazie dressed, suits by Brioni, shirts and rich Italian silk ties by A. Sulka. He looked as if he wouldn’t be caught dead in Brooks Brothers, where, so Milhaud had heard, many modern American corporations kept an open account for their executives.

Mr. LoGrazie was a creature of some culture. He enjoyed talking of Chagall and Modigliani. When he walked—walking exercised his mind, he claimed—he did so often in La Ruche, the cité des artistes, where in their day his favorites chose to paint.

Milhaud took lunch with Mr. LoGrazie at various restaurants around Paris, Au Quai d’Orsay, Le Duc, Le Trou Gascon, but most often they met for drinks late in the day at the Club Fleurir.

Milhaud preferred this location because it was beautiful and convenient, so close to his house on the Avenue New York. More important, perhaps, this handsome eighteenth-century building was virtually hidden away on rue Jean Goujon, a discreet tree-lined street in the posh Eighth arrondissement, mercifully free of the traffic congestion that made the Place de la Concorde into a sort of twenty-four-hour-a-day madhouse of tourism and smog which, to Milhaud’s way of thinking, was one and the same.

Mr. LoGrazie liked Canadian Club Manhattans, very cold, with a twist. With Milhaud, it varied, according to his mood. Today, as he settled himself against the velvet banquette, he opted for “33” beer. It was a taste he had developed during his trips to Southeast Asia, when he had been known by another name. Milhaud still liked Asian beer and Khmer women best, preferably together.

He watched M. LoGrazie with renewed interest. “We have completed the initial phase of Operation White Tiger,” he said.

“Successfully?” M. LoGrazie asked.

“One hundred percent,” Milhaud said somewhat untruthfully. “We have erased the major stumbling block to our joint venture. We are now prepared to step into the vacuum, as it were, that Terry Haye’s death created, and assume an unobstructed position in the trade.”

“Then you have acquired the Doorway to Night from Mr. Haye,” Mr. LoGrazie said.

“Yes.” Lying came easily to Milhaud. He had been doing it with great accomplishment all his life.

“Good.” Mr. LoGrazie seemed greatly relieved. “Jesus, I can’t tell you what a thorn in our side Terry Haye had become. It’s a pleasure doing business with a professional. I will forward the appropriate installment of your fee through our bank in Zurich.”

“D’accord.”

“The trinity of swords is now complete,” Mr. LoGrazie said. “This foolishness—”

“There is nothing foolish about the Forest of Swords,” Milhaud broke in. “A great many people—people who control both the product and the pipeline without which White Tiger is worthless—believe in its power. That makes the power real.”

Mr. LoGrazie chuckled. “You mean if enough people believe in the bogeyman, he exists? Come on, who’s kidding who?” He waved his hands. “Anyway, who gives a shit? The only thing is, after all this, I’d like to get a look at this thing complete.”

“That can be easily arranged,” Milhaud said expansively. He was feeling quite pleased with himself. “But it will take some time, you understand. It has not even been assembled yet, and that is a delicate procedure.”

“Yeah? How long could it possibly take? You’ve got to ship it off to Asia ASAP. But before it goes, I want to see what I’ve been paying for.”

After M. LoGrazie left, Milhaud sat back, broke open a pack of Gauloises, and lit up. Watching the smoke curl up toward the ceiling, Milhaud wondered what M. LoGrazie would say if he knew that the Doorway to Night that Milhaud had obtained from Terry Haye was a fake. Certainly his payment would not be forthcoming.

The real Porte à la Nuit was not yet in Milhaud’s possession, but he was pursuing every avenue to obtain it. He knew that it was just a matter of time before he discovered where Terry Haye had hidden the real, priceless dagger. The problem was, with M. LoGrazie hounding him, he didn’t have much time.

And M. LoGrazie was right, Milhaud could not start up Operation White Tiger without it. Of course, he could rig up a phony, just as Terry Haye had done; M. LoGrazie wouldn’t know what he was looking at anyway. But still, the fact remained that Milhaud needed the real Doorway to Night. Not for M. LoGrazie—or for anyone in the Mafia—but for the opium warlords in the Shan.

When the three separate weapons that comprised the Forest of Swords were put together, it would create a talisman so potent that all existing network liaisons between warlords and middlemen would be abrogated. The fiercely independent tribesmen of the Shan Plateau, where the world’s best opium was grown, would slay their own brothers if the wielder of the Forest of Swords were to order it.

The Prey Dauw, as the warlords called the three-bladed weapon, belonged in the pantheon of their ancient mythology. It was said to have been created by Mahagiri, a rogue monk, a kind of sorcerer who made a deal with Ravana, chief demon in Theravadan Buddhist theology. Yet it existed. Milhaud already possessed two parts; soon he would have the third piece, La Porte à la Nuit. Whole, the magic of the Forest of Swords—whether real or imagined—would make its owner the most powerful man on earth.

Milhaud took a long pull on his cigarette, closed his eyes. He allowed his mind to drift toward Soutane. He saw her curled upon a rumpled bed. He saw the slow green river winding like a serpent outside the open window, the cries of the vendors in the passing sampans. He saw her tiny feet bound within pink shoes, her dark, sad eyes upon him.

Soutane Sirik, the subject of Milhaud’s yearning, was at that moment staring at a photograph of herself and Terry Haye. They were at an outdoor restaurant, sitting beneath a striped awning, their arms around each other. Terry, wearing sunglasses, was grinning. The edges of the photo were frayed and worn. Soutane had carried it in her pocketbook ever since it had been developed. Through her tears, the figures seemed to take on the dreamlike quality with which the Impressionists invested their finest work. A happy couple; people she knew, or had known, but not well.

Soutane had fled from Nice the day after Terry’s death. After she had identified his body, after the police had questioned her, after she had spent a sleepless night in her apartment—her apartment, but Terry’s home. Terry seemed to be everywhere she looked, turned, sat, or stood. Not just his memory, but his spiritual presence. She began to feel suffocated by it.

Flight was a primitive response, and Soutane did not question it. When the sun began to tint the sky, she went through her drawers, shoving underclothes, shorts, and tops into a small overnight bag. She needed not only to get away from Nice but to be with family.

Family was very important to Soutane. She was an only child. Now without her mother and her father, she had only Mun, her cousin. His father—Soutane’s mother’s brother—had been a leader in the Lon Nol regime in Cambodia in the early 1970s, when Prince Sihanouk had been deposed. He had made many bitter enemies. In the ensuing bloody struggle for control of the country, Mun’s parents and siblings had been assassinated. Mun had fled to friends of his father’s, who, at great risk to themselves, had managed to smuggle him out of the country.

Mun was very important to Soutane, and so it was to his villa in the hills northwest of Nice that she went. She had stayed for three days, living like a baby: eating, sleeping fitfully. She would twitch, stalked by terrible nightmares: a herd of magnificent horses, thundering across a vast, backlit plain, their eyes bloody and streaming. She would start awake, gasping and weeping until Mun came to hold her and rock her back to sleep. Often, he would sing her Khmer lullabies.

At the end of three days Soutane arose from a dream in which she had been a bronze statue of Buddha. She had watched with her bronze eyes as the flesh-and-blood Soutane took off her shoes, washed her feet, and entered the temple where the Soutane Buddha sat. The flesh-and-blood Soutane had knelt before her, praying. Seeing that display of devotion, she wanted to cry, but her bronze eyes would not oblige her. She wanted to speak to the flesh-and-blood Soutane, but her bronze lips were frozen shut. She wanted to reach out and comfort the flesh-and-blood Soutane, but her bronze arms would not move.

That morning Soutane went with Mun to pray, something she had not done for many years. Though she was only half Khmer, she had been brought up with Theravadan Buddhism. This form of the religion is—as the Khmer say—ingested with mother’s milk. Basically, the Theravadan Buddhists believe in thirty-one planes of existence into which a human being can be reborn: a wheel called samsara. According to them, there is no afterlife, no soul, no omnipotent god. Even Buddha cannot be prayed to directly. Instead, one addressed one’s prayers to any number of the thirty-seven nats, or saints.

“I take refuge in the Buddha,” Soutane prayed. “I take refuge in the Dharma. I take refuge in the Sangha.”

The core of Soutane’s teaching lay in Gautama Buddha’s Four Noble Truths: Life has in it the element of suffering. Suffering is caused by desire. To end suffering one must give up all desire; to do this one must relinquish all attachments. The way to freedom lies in the Noble Eightfold Path of right intent and right conduct.

When she returned home late that night—last night—she was calmer than she had been since she had received the news of Terry’s violent death. Similarly, the house seemed friendly again. She had washed some clothes, put away others she had not used on her trip.

That was when she had discovered that someone had been in the house while she was away. She knew immediately that it had not been the police. She had left them Mun’s number, and surely they would have informed her. Besides, they had already been through the house while she was there.

Soutane had opened the drawer in which she kept her underclothes, and noticed that one of her panties—the pink floral one—was missing. At first, she thought she had misplaced it, or had taken it with her. But after checking her overnight case, as well as throughout the house, she could not find it. It was while she was brewing herself tea that she remembered seeing it in the drawer when she had packed to go away to Mun’s three days ago. In fact, she could recall pushing it to one side in order to get to another pair she had wanted to take with her. Now the pink pair was missing. Impossible. Unless someone had been in the house and had taken it.

Soutane went methodically through the house, making a meticulous search. That was when she found Terry’s unmailed postcard to his brother, Chris, with the postscript still unwritten.

She stared at it for a long time, wondering at the feelings it evoked within her. Terry’s handwriting. Chris’s name. Then, putting it in her handbag, she finished her search. Nothing else seemed to be missing. Whatever the thief was looking for, he hadn’t found it.

She felt a chill creeping up her spine. She felt nauseated by the idea of someone creeping around her home. It was akin to the idea of a stranger putting his hand between her thighs. It was intimate and monstrous at the same time.

Then she pulled herself together. The violated feeling, she knew, came from a sense of helplessness. She needed to regain control of the situation. But it was more than that, she knew. She had spent the past five years—with Terry’s loving help—drawing a veil of normalcy over the horrors of the past. Now the violence had returned. There had been great violence in Mun’s past—violence that had almost swept her away. Was this true, too, of Terry’s past? The thought that it might be true was almost too much for her to bear.

She realized with a swiftness that took her breath away just how fragile the illusion of normalcy was. Just beneath, like a terrifying shark within dark currents, lurked the knowledge of what she was, what she would now always be. Someone skilled in the art of death.

She turned her mind with a deliberate effort to the present. While she sipped her tea, she thought it all out. When she was done, she got up and turned out all the lights. She stood, then, for a long time, scarcely daring to breathe. Her heart was hammering fast, and it took all her force of will to get to the window.

The curtains billowed against her face. She was very still. Perhaps she was weeping. At last she curled her forefinger around the edge of the curtain, drew it aside just a sliver.

Outside, the Boulevard Victor Hugo was filled with parked cars. Plane trees diffused the streetlights. Shadows drifted along the sidewalks like wraiths as, every so often, a car slid by. She saw nothing out of the ordinary, and was about to turn away when she saw the flare of a match. For an instant darkness vanished from a building’s entrance across the street. She waited, breathing slowly. A face, the back of a hand, a figure looking up at her.

Soutane recoiled from the window. She gave a tiny, involuntary cry and, clutching the frayed photo of the happy couple to her breast, whispered, “Oh, Terry. I can’t face this alone. Why aren’t you here?”

From across the street M. Mabuse watched Seve Guarda standing with Diana Ming in the bright light of the hospital’s entrance. He lifted his right arm, pointed his forefinger, and aimed at the spot between Seve’s eyes. A sitting duck, he thought.

He imagined the soft cough of the silenced gun, the soft crash of the glass shattering, the soft noise not unlike that of a baby suckling contentedly at its mother’s breast as the bullet pierced skin, flesh, and bone.

He imagined the acute motions of the body in trauma, the spurting of the blood, especially the blood, filling the vast industrial vestibule, splashing over the scuffed granite floor, lit up by the brilliant fluorescents, coating the spiky glass shards still in the doorframe so that they sparked and glistened like pink diamonds.

For some reason the thought of blood always brought to mind a certain image: a woman’s bare thighs, opened, expectant, dewy with promise. M. Mabuse felt himself growing hard. Sex and death were inextricably linked in his mind, as if they were two sides of the same coin, forever spinning from the darkness into the light.

M. Mabuse shifted in his seat behind the wheel of his rented car. He adored cars in quite the same way he adored sex and death. In fact, he often daydreamed of dying in a car, speeding at a hundred and fifty miles per hour, smashing into a concrete wall or, even better, another car.

The idea had been with him for some time, but it had been given substance by Crash, a book he had discovered in a Heathrow Airport bookstall years ago while he was waiting for his outbound flight. Now he never traveled without it, repeatedly reading with greedy intensity its descriptions of erotic car crashes in rain-swept, neon-lit futurescapes.

M. Mabuse was consumed by the notion of death. Often, he wondered why it was he was still living, when a dozen of his brothers and sisters were nothing more than cinders, scattered beneath the soil of Vietnam, muddy with blood, swollen with corpses.

In those moments, like the lucid periods within a high fever, he understood that it was not enough for him to die. Death was simple; it was clean, in its way, the purest experience a human being can have. His karma dictated something more for him. But he had as yet to grasp what that might be.

M. Mabuse, watching Seve climb into his car, thought of the death he would mete out to him. The shooting incident was a wisp of smoke, a joke, an amusement he had conjured up to while away the time.

Time was something that M. Mabuse had learned to control. But, then, he had had no choice. Not, that is, unless you considered insanity a choice. When one spent five hundred days incarcerated in the black pit of a Vietnamese prison camp with nothing to eat but worms and insects that one clawed out of the bare earth with one’s bloody fingers, one learned to master time.

Or, more accurately, thought. Because if his incarceration had taught M. Mabuse anything, it was that time did not exist. Alone in the darkness and the silence, thought became a monstrous entity. In time it was the only thing that existed. Thought defined one’s world and, therefore, one’s reality. So M. Mabuse learned to control his thoughts and, thus, to master time.

The skill had had other uses, as when M. Mabuse had been tortured. Even today, had he been asked how much torture he had endured, M. Mabuse would have no way of answering. He simply did not know. While his body was pinned in hell, his mind was reaching for the Void.

Seve’s car, with Diana driving, pulled out into traffic. M. Mabuse, gunning his engine, followed. He did not know where Seve was going; it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Seve would eventually come to rest. And when he did, M. Mabuse would be there. Then he would have his run.

His tongue flicked across his dark, cracked lips. Amid the jabber of the city street, M. Mabuse found silence as effortlessly as he found darkness. His mind was filled with the flowering explosions, the oily napalm running like a monstrous beast that ate his village alive, that flayed the skin off its inhabitants, that devoured the night; this nightmare spread out before him like delicacies at a picnic.

He stopped at a traffic light, just a car’s length from Seve Guarda. In the dim streetlight it was just possible to make out a crisscrossing of scars on the inside of his left forearm. Some were obviously old, but others seemed much more recent.

M. Mabuse took out a small stiletto, snapped it open. Then he slid the edge of the blade across a section of his forearm that was free of scar tissue.

The sharp pain of the wound brought him fully awake, as if from a dream, or the thought of a dream. It was very pleasurable.

For what seemed a long time, until the light turned green, M. Mabuse stared at the blood—his blood—creeping along the steering wheel as if it were an animal with a will independent of his own. When, in time with his pulse, it began to drip onto the floor of the car, he got out a handkerchief to stanch the flow.

Two days a week Milhaud worked, inasmuch as one could say he worked at all, at the Académie de l’Histoire Militaire. This was not, however, a school—at least not in the conventional sense—but rather a library encompassing all aspects of military thought, practice, and art.

The Académie was private, wholly funded by the SRGE, the Société Rentrer dans le Giron de l’Église, the Society to Return to the Fold, within whose portals the extraordinary library was housed.

The seventeenth-century French Baroque structure owned by the SRGE, or Le Giron, as it was known among its members, was a glorious affair designed by Jules Hardouin-Mansart, and featured a roofline that bore his name. It was situated in the Place Vendôme which, considering the value of Parisian real estate, bespoke Le Giron’s exceeding wealth.

Milhaud was in charge of information acquisition and retrieval for the vast library. At least, this was ostensibly his work for two days a week. In fact, he was a kind of professor at the Académie, tutoring promising pupils in the art of warfare as Le Giron viewed it. This meant presenting a historical perspective, which included the changing theories of warfare as practiced by the acknowledged geniuses of war, beginning with Alexander and ending with Patton.

Then—and only then—did Milhaud introduce his pupils to Sun Tzu, Ieyasu Tokugawa, and Miyamoto Musashi, whose philosophies were both timeless and indispensable.

“Take their lessons to heart,” he was fond of instructing his pupils. “The Roman Empire was once the greatest power on earth. Too, the British Empire had its moment of glory. As for America, it peaked as an imperialist nation in 1945. Now it has become the world’s largest debtor nation. It is being crippled by its enormous trade imbalance. It is unable or unwilling to house its burgeoning urban homeless population. No one wants its products, even its own people. Americans want to see ‘Made in Japan’ or ‘Made in Germany’ on everything they purchase.

“Is it ironic that currently Japan and Germany, who lost the World War, who, forty-five years ago, were on the brink of ruin, have the strongest economies? No. It is a lesson to be learned. All power is fleeting, to paraphrase George Patton.

“As for America, the dying behemoth, it lacks only the coup de grace to put it out of its misery. The corruption of ultimate power, the Romans have taught us, comes at the decline of a civilization. Watergate and, most recently, the Iran-Contra affair exhibit those mortal sins of venality and immorality which are the signs of advancing evil.

“So this is where we must begin: the death of America.”

His lectures never failed to mesmerize his students, eliciting in them a reverence akin to awe. They saw in him a kind of symbol of the brand of potent radical politics they had been assured was extinct by those in the world outside Le Giron.

But in addition to his seminal work at the Académie, Milhaud supervised many other matters. The most important of these, by far, was running White Tiger.

Operation White Tiger, the creation of a major drug pipeline into the Shan Plateau, was a Mafia code designation, but it was simpler for Milhaud’s people to use it as well. For practical reasons Milhaud had delegated much of the responsibility for the actual running of the operation to his Vietnamese hounds, M. Mabuse and Dante. But Mr. LoGrazie, the representative of the Mafia families involved in White Tiger, did not know this.

It was Milhaud’s intention never to reveal the identities of his operatives to Mr. LoGrazie. There were myriad reasons for this, most of them basic tradecraft, pertaining to security. But even more important, Milhaud wanted to ensure that the Mafia, whose appetite for selling drugs was legendary, was irrevocably tied to him—and him alone.

Mr. LoGrazie had come to Milhaud, offering him a generous fee plus fifteen percent of the action to handle the logistics of the operation. After all, the Mafia had never had any direct dealings with the opium warlords of the Shan. Milhaud had a decades-long history in the region, and Mr. LoGrazie’s people needed his contacts as well as his expertise. Besides which, they would never have been able to deal effectively with Terry Haye.

Milhaud considered the amount of the fee. Ten million dollars plus expenses, in addition to the percentage, made it clear just how important this operation was to the families.

Milhaud had heard how dangerous and treacherous the Mafia could be, but they were in his part of the world now. He held the upper hand. Why, he could even hand over the Forest of Swords to them, and they would not know what to do with it. He almost laughed out loud at the thought.

The telephone rang. Milhaud listened to the voice without speaking a word in reply. It was Mr. LoGrazie calling for a meet-through the automated, dead-drop phone circuit.

Milhaud was curious. It was not at one of their usual haunts, but rather at a dingy tourist restaurant in the business end of the Rue St. Honoré.

Mr. LoGrazie was sitting at a window table, in the shadow of the Ministry of Finance across the street, that rather tedious portion of the monstrous complex that housed the Louvre.

Milhaud ordered an espresso, because the place had no Asian beer. When it came, he sipped it slowly. It was execrable, meant for American tourists who thought the coffee at McDonald’s was just fine.

Mr. LoGrazie was drinking a mineral water, which was unusual. “There is a matter I wish to present to you,” he said. His voice was odd, tight, full of a springlike coil, and Milhaud was instantly on his guard. What has happened? he thought with a twinge of apprehension.

“Whatever I can do.”

Mr. LoGrazie signaled for the check. “It’s gotten too close in here,” he said abruptly. He threw some bills on the table.

A block away they strolled around the Palais Royal. There were plenty of foreigners around—busloads of Germans, a smattering, here and there, of Japanese, Spaniards, Russians.

“I wonder whether you notice these tourists in the same way I do,” Milhaud said. “These days most of them are Germans. That worries us French, because the deutsche mark is so strong, you see. In 1992, all the European borders will come down. Common Market citizens will no longer need a passport or a visa inside Western Europe. Travel will be unrestricted. And not only travel. Anyone will be able to buy property, businesses. We’re frankly terrified that the Germans will come in here and do to Paris what the Japanese have already done to New York: buy it wholesale.”

“Germans I can live with,” Mr. LoGrazie said. “They’re good businessmen. It’s the Russians I worry about. The worst thing we could do is sign nuclear missile treaties with those lying sons of bitches.”

Milhaud wondered if Pavlov ever discovered how much like his dogs Americans could be. It was so easy to gauge their reactions, he believed, because the culture of the brave New World was built on stereotypes: John Wayne cowboy heroes, Black Bart villains. If you rode a white horse or wore a white hat, Americans saw you as a good guy, no matter how your actions might contradict the stereotypical image.

Milhaud was anxious to get back to work. “Do you have something for me?”

Mr. LoGrazie said, “There is a saying in our family: Even small boats leave wakes. We don’t want any wakes left at all.”

Milhaud watched Mr. LoGrazie, waiting for a clue as to what he was talking about.

“As to setting the groundwork for White Tiger’s success,” Mr. LoGrazie said, “it seems that there is still a bit more to do.”

They turned down a side street, away from the chattering tourists. Mr. LoGrazie stopped in the shadow of a building’s arched colonnade. “It’s become clear that taking care of Terry Haye wasn’t enough. We’re afraid that a leak still exists.”

They could see, through the windows, a crowd bidding at an auction of French Impressionist paintings. The large room was filled mainly with Germans and Japanese, catalogs clutched in their eager fists.

“Terry Haye had a mistress,” Mr. LoGrazie went. “A French girl with Khmer blood by the name of Soutane Sirik.”

Milhaud’s bowels instantly turned to water.

Mr. LoGrazie was staring through the windows at the fantastic Monet currently being auctioned off. The bidding seemed quite spirited. “Don’t tell me you weren’t aware of her.”

Milhaud’s desperate urge to urinate sent a warning shiver through him. “Well, of course I was. But I assumed that Terry Haye had kept her out of—”

“Wrong.” Mr. LoGrazie had not looked at Milhaud for some time. Which was just as well. Milhaud was white as a sheet.

“We want,” Mr. LoGrazie continued, “to arrange for the Sirik girl to follow her lover.”

“But—”

“But me no buts,” Mr. LoGrazie said curtly. “This is not a negotiation. We want you to do it. Period.” He turned on his heel and left.

Stunned, Milhaud watched Mr. LoGrazie stride hurriedly off. He was between Scylla and Charybdis. He could not kill Soutane, but neither could he disobey M. LoGrazie’s orders.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. Think! he berated himself. What could the Mafia achieve by having Soutane killed? He could not imagine an answer. Therefore, he knew he needed to find one.

He watched the Germans and the Japanese bidding for the Monet, and thought with shame, We French are not, after all, so far from the Americans. Everyone wants a piece of us now.

It was late in New York by the time Chris Haye was through making arrangements to fly to France. He hung up the phone.

His mind felt like a sieve. Moments in time were grains of sand, slipping through his grasp without either form or substance. He seemed to be existing in a twilight world where all sensation had been banished. His brother was dead. It was as if he had begun breathing in novocaine instead of oxygen. He was numb inside and out.

He found himself staring at a blinking light on his phone. The red glow, like the warning of a lighthouse in dense fog, meant nothing to him. Then he heard the ringing; it seemed to have been going on for a long time. Realizing it was the phone, he picked it up.

“Bonjour,” a woman’s voice said.

He did not answer.

“Allô?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“Parlez-vous français, monsieur?”

“Oui, madame,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Is Monsieur Haye there?” Soutane asked. “Chris Haye.”

“You are speaking to him.”

“Ah, bon.” Having come this far, she hesitated. Her heart was hammering. “This is Soutane Sirik,” she said at last. “I am calling from Nice. France.”

Chris sat up straight. “Soutane,” he said in a strangled voice, “is that you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am using my mother’s maiden name now.”

Chris did not know what to say or think; his mind was as numb as if it were encased in a chunk of ice. “After all this time . . .” He almost choked on his words.

“I know,” she said. “It must be a shock. You are probably wondering why I’m calling.”

There was dead space for so long that Chris said, “Are you there?” Just as if she might be an apparition he had somehow conjured up.

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, hell. I’m calling about your brother.”

“You knew Terry?”

“We lived together for five years.”

God in heaven. His intestines had turned to water. “I know Terry is dead, Soutane,” he managed to get out. There was a building crumbling on his shoulders. The weight was killing him. “People at my father’s office called me. I imagine the French authorities got his number from you.”

“Yes.”

“I appreciate your calling.” He was having trouble remembering how to breathe.

“What seems odd,” she said quickly, “is that I found a postcard he was about to mail to you. It says that you hadn’t had any contact in ten years. Is that true?”

He was only half listening to her. “Give or take, I suppose so.”

“It also says that he was going to fly into New York to see you next week. He said it was important.”

There was silence. Chris found that he was gripping the receiver so hard his hand had begun to hurt.

“Do you know anything about what Terry might have wanted to speak to you about?”

“How could I?”

“I mean, did he send you anything in the past several weeks?”

“Terry never sent me anything,” Chris said. “Ever.” For a moment he listened to her breathing. Slowly, he came out of his fog. “Soutane, are you in some sort of trouble?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It seems that Terry had a lot of secrets.”

“That sounds like my brother.”

“But these are secrets,” Soutane said, “that have survived his death.”

Chris considered this. “Look,” he said, “since my father is away, I have to take care of the formalities. I’m scheduled to fly into Nice the day after tomorrow. I’ll be staying at the Negresco.” His heart beating painfully. “Why don’t you meet me there for drinks?”

“I have a better idea,” Soutane said. “I’ll pick you up at the airport. When are you due in?”

He gave her the scheduled arrival time, along with the Pan Am flight number.

“Bon. Merci, Chris. À bientôt.”

Soutane, Soutane. Her name was like the prayers he had said as a child before he went to sleep.

Think of something else.

Terry coming to New York to see him? That would have been an extraordinary occurrence. What could have been so important to impel him to end his decade-long isolation?

Chris wondered if he would ever find out now.

He swiveled his chair around to look out the window. The sound of Soutane’s voice hung in his mind long after he had put the receiver down. Blue shadows had stolen across Central Park, engulfing the foliage in blackness. Surrounded as it was by the city’s myriad lights, it had somehow become a metaphor for Chris’s future: unknown and infinitely malleable.

What’s with the limp, counselor?

It’s the rain. It’s nothing.

Not nothing. Something. Or, rather, someone coming back at him with the force of a boomerang.

Soutane.

He closed his eyes, and compelled his mind to turn to other thoughts. He needed an anodyne. He had been thinking about Alix Layne before the call.

An image of a night perhaps a month ago swam up into his consciousness. He was having dinner with Bram Stryker, a casual friend who was a divorce lawyer. Stryker had a well-deserved reputation as a shark in negotiations. According to the girls in the office, he also had a reputation (well deserved or not, Chris did not know) for taking to bed his female clients. Be that as it may, Stryker had a sharp mind, and Chris enjoyed picking his brains.

On the way out of the restaurant Stryker had said he had an after-­dinner obligation to stop in at an open house, and asked Chris to join him.

It happened to be Alix Layne’s open house. She lived in a large, dark one-bedroom apartment on West Ninety-third Street. How a place with such high ceilings could be so stifling Chris could not say. Perhaps it was only that there were three times the number of people it could comfortably accommodate.

In any event, Chris was immediately uncomfortable. He was an East Side person in just the same way that residents of Beverly Hills prefer either the flats or the hills. They were two entirely separate environments, and they fit differing personalities.

Chris lost Stryker almost immediately in the smoke-filled mob. The blare of music almost pushed him back into the hallway. He nodded to an acquaintance from a rival firm, said hello to a few more people before he was able to shoulder his way to the bar. Nursing a drink, he spent an uneventful ten minutes talking shop with a Superior Court judge.

By that time he had had it. He went in search of Stryker, knowing at the outset that in this madhouse it was a fool’s errand. He tried the kitchen, but it was so full he could hardly squeeze in.

He went down the hall. In the bedroom he found more smoke, more noise. A second stereo was blasting. The two disparate rhythms created a frisson similar to the one the city emitted each morning at rush hour. People were crawling over the bed. Others had opened the large window and were dancing on the fire escape. Stryker was not among them.

Chris gave it up, went back down the hall. As he was passing the bathroom, its door opened wide enough for him to see inside. There was Stryker with his arms around Alix Layne. It was a moment that, in Chris’s memory at least, was suffused with silence.

As he watched them kiss, he was struck by the lack of emotion on Stryker’s face, save for a kind of triumph as Alix wrapped her leg around his thigh, clinging to him with a kind of desperation. It seemed as if Stryker was almost laughing at her.

Chris remembered that he had begun to break out in a cold sweat. He wanted to slam his fist into Stryker’s face. Chris had never before realized that lust could exist without passion. He had never imagined that the sight of two people kissing could be so ugly. Confronted by that reality, he had retreated in silence.

Chris opened his eyes. Silence must be my strong suit, he thought. I was silent during Alix’s diatribe outside the courthouse, too.

He turned off his desk lamp, reached for his jacket, and went out the door of his office. At this hour it was self-locking. The click resounded hollowly in the hallway.

Downstairs, he watched the cabs slide through the rain-slick streets. Rush hour was over, but theater hour was just beginning. So much for trying to hail a taxi.

Chris did not know what to do or where to go. There were so many possibilities. Yet, because his mind was filling up with the jumbled images and emotions of the past, the simple act of choosing one seemed too much to contemplate. He stood beneath the granite and marble overhang of the building, watching colors slip and slide in the wet until the memory he had been suppressing squirted up through the night: Chris at a funeral home across from the airstrip at Dover Air Force Base, watching the soldiers unload the stacks of aluminum caskets fresh-packed from beautiful downtown Da Nang. He was there to make the final arrangements for a friend who, without family, had named Chris beneficiary of his life insurance.

The twenty-year-old Chris Haye shivering in the bright heat of summer, chilled to the bone, the truly horrifying notion sweeping over him that his brother, Terry, the special forces hero, could be inside one of those gleaming caskets, and they had never said goodbye to one another.

The monotony of the steady rain had become overpoweringly depressing.

Chris shook himself. He turned his collar up and, hunching his shoulders against the rain, began walking uptown.

When he got home, he stripped off his soggy clothes, drew on sweat shorts and a sleeveless shirt. In the full-length mirror in his bedroom, he saw himself.

An observer, no doubt, would have been impressed by the ripple of his muscles. He was a tall man, with the broad shoulders and narrow hips of the athlete. His hard muscles possessed that long, lean quality—rather than the bulk of the muscle builder, or the sinewy, almost emaciated aspect of the long-distance runner—that could only come from swimming or biking.

What Chris saw, however, was the young man who had been an aerobic exercise machine, the top prospect to win the Tour de France, that grueling combination of endurance and speed, where cyclists were expected to maintain speeds in excess of twenty-five miles per hour up steep alpine grades. That was in 1969, the same year that Terry had been dodging bullets in Southeast Asia.

That year the race had been dedicated to la France profonde, the villages of the country’s interior, and to this day, that was the France that Chris remembered and loved with all his heart. La France profonde: which had lifted him to the dizzying heights of glory, and then had raised its fist against him, so that he had returned home a different person. The youth of full flower, of unlimited strength and stamina, of what the Italians he met there called risico, constant risk taking, of, most of all, life as an ageless present where one was invulnerable, was gone forever.

How much older was he now? Chris wished he knew. If one counted such things merely in years, not much. There were the same blue eyes, curly black hair; there was no fat anywhere on his face or his body, and a minimum of lines. “That’s your Celtic blood, son!” his father used to say. And, in truth, the young Chris Haye used to imagine himself as a Celtic warrior, armored, sword raised against a horde of Picts swarming over the stone cairns surrounding Stonehenge.

My God, he thought, that seems like ages ago. But Soutane whispering in his ear was only moments past.

At the antique French desk in his bedroom he opened a drawer, drew out a thick sheaf of typescript. The sheets were bound by a rubber band that snapped in two at his touch. The pages were stained and worn. In the upper right-hand corner was an annotation in his hand: Mougins, 1969.

He had not taken out this manuscript in years, and reading it now, hating the ineptitude of the sentences, he understood why. With a convulsive gesture he shoved the loose sheets back in the drawer, slammed it shut.

Barefoot, he padded into the small second bedroom that he used for his workouts. A weight rack stood against one wall, next to a rowing machine. In front of the window an exercise bike and an electronic treadmill stood side by side. Chris climbed onto the bike and set off. He looked out the window, down thirty stories at Third Avenue, but there was nothing to see. Instead, images of Thonon-les-Bains, Chamonix, Aubagne, and Digne filled his mind. And for that time he was once again wearing the coveted yellow jersey that only the leader of the Tour de France was allowed to wear.

An hour later he climbed off, and rowed at top speed for forty minutes. Then he threw himself into lifting weights until he felt the delicious fatigue, and the sweat was rolling off him freely. But that did not calm him, and neither did a cold shower. Visions of Mougins, unbidden, filled his mind. It hadn’t been only the Tour de France that had happened to him in the summer of 1969.

Dressed, he found himself restlessly pacing the apartment as if it were a prison. In every mirror, in every pane of glass, he saw Soutane’s face. He grabbed a lightweight raincoat and went out.

It was not until he was north of Seventy-second Street that he realized where he was headed. He was a block away from Max Steiner’s place.

Steiner lived in an old, rambling co-op on Seventy-fifth between Fifth and Madison. The doorman called up, then pointed out the proper elevator; this was one of those buildings where an elevator serviced two apartments on each floor.

Steiner had the door open before Chris stepped out onto the floor. He was grinning, and Chris felt grateful to have such an ally. It had been Max and Chris against the world from the moment Chris had come to work for Steiner, McDowell and Fine; it would always be that way. That was why, Chris realized, he had come here now.

“I hope you’ve come to gloat,” Steiner said, pumping Chris’s hand. “You were all over the six o’clock news, you sonuvabitch.” Considering Chris’s present mood, his enthusiasm was as depressing as the rain outside.

“Max, could we talk?”

“Sure. Sure.” Max drew him into the vestibule. The sounds of other voices could be heard behind Steiner. “But later. Come on in. I’m having a little party. Bill and Marjorie Horner, Jack and Betty Johnson, you know them. We’ve just finished dinner. Have a nightcap, stay awhile. It’s almost time for the news at eleven. You can gloat all over—”

“No. No, that’s all right.” Oh, Jesus, Chris thought. That’s all I need now, to put on my professional face and make small talk over martinis and caviar.

“Come on, Chris,” Max said. “What? You think you’re intruding? You know better than that. Besides, you know all the people here.” He laughed. “There are even some fans of yours. They’d eat me alive if they thought I’d let a genuine celebrity like you get away. You’ll make this party.”

Chris realized that he hadn’t told Max about Terry’s death, and now he couldn’t. He could imagine Max’s expression as he said, “But you never told me you had a brother.” Chris could not face that. He seemed to have to fight Steiner off. “No, really,” he said. “I just have a minute. I’ve got a date, and I’m already late.”

Steiner peered at him. “You sure you can’t stay for just one drink?”

Chris nodded. In desperation he retreated to the hall, rang for the elevator. “Positive.”

“Well, okay.” Steiner brightened. “We’ll talk tomorrow, yes?”

“Sure,” Chris said. “I’ll give you a call.” Then, blessedly, the elevator door opened, and he got in.

“Hey, Chris, Alix Layne was ready to eat you for lunch,” Steiner said. “She asked the DA for your case. I’m damn proud of you.”

Chris began to say thanks, but he choked on the word.

Outside, the rain had ceased for the time being, but it had left the city as hot and steamy as an August night. Chris grabbed a taxi.

“Where to, buddy?”

Chris gave the cabby an address, then promptly forgot what he had said. Lost in thought, he watched the city glide by him. It was full of life, stuffed to the brim with movement, laughter, giddy, running feet. Couples strolled down the wide avenues, lovers clung to the shadows between buildings. It was a tapestry, Chris realized with a start, that was complete without him.

They were well into the Central Park transverse when Chris said, “Where the hell are you taking me?”

“To Ninety-third Street, west of Columbus,” the cabby said. “You think of a better way to get there? Well, there ain’t none.”

Ninety-third west of Columbus, Chris thought. Jesus, that’s where Alix Layne lives. “I couldn’t have—”

The cabby slammed on his brakes and turned around. “You wanna go somewhere else, buddy, all’s you gotta do is tell me.”

Horns began to blare behind them as traffic began to pile up. “No,” Chris said woodenly. “It’s all right.”

But it wasn’t all right. Not by a long shot. He was still wondering what the hell he was doing here when he pushed the button next to her plastic name plate. A screech of static emanated from the grime-encrusted speaker grill. He shouted something into it and, in a moment, the front door buzzed.

The elevator smelled from takeout pizza and cigar smoke. He got off at the fourth floor, went down a narrow, dimly lit hall that had just been repainted. All that had done was to make the bulges in the plaster more apparent.

The door at the far end opened. He could see Alix Layne framed in the light from her apartment. She was wearing a pair of cutoff jeans so old they were almost white, a T-shirt that said “I’D RATHER BE RIDING MY BIKE,” and nothing else. She was eating a slice of pizza.

Chris stopped in front of her. “I hope you aren’t smoking a cigar.”

“What?” She was looking at him in the way people do when the thirteenth clown gets out of the three-foot car in the circus. She didn’t quite believe this was happening.

“What I mean is,” Chris said, “are you alone?”

Seve Guarda looked down at the severed head of his brother and thought, What in the name of Christ happened? He and Diana Ming were crouched in the arbor behind the privet in the back of Holy Trinity Church in New Canaan. With them was Harvey Blocker, the supervising detective from the Town Police.

Blocker was a heavyset man with bloodshot eyes. His close-cropped hair was a color somewhere between dirty blond and gray. He had a cold sore at one corner of his mouth that his tongue would not leave alone.

“I never saw anything like this,” he was saying now. “The head’s here in the garden, and the rest of him’s back in the sacristy.” He grunted as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “As you could see, there was something of a struggle.”

“No one saw anyone go into the sacristy?” Seve asked; A lump in his throat was making it hard to breathe.

Blocker shook his head. “We interviewed the lot. Father Donnelly was aware that your brother went into the sacristy after Mass. But that was strictly SOP. Father Donnelly said that your brother liked to be alone for a time, so he thought nothing of it.”

Seve had noticed an odd patterning of the flesh at the end of Dom’s neck. He stared at it, trying to make sense of it.

“But an hour later,” Blocker went on, “when Father Guarda still had not come out, Father Donnelly went into the sacristy. That’s when he found your brother, and called us.”

Blocker led them around the church, through a side entrance, back into the sacristy. Dominic was lying on his right side. It was eerie, and a bit frightening, Seve thought, to see a body without a head. This is not my brother, he told himself. This cannot be Dom.

“What do you make of this, Detective?”

Blocker pawed his nose with a thick forefinger. “Damned if I know,” he said. “Who would want to waste a priest? As far as I can see, it makes no sense.”

“A psycho, maybe?” Diana Ming said.

Blocker shrugged. “Could be. Who knows with people these days?” He grunted as he rubbed at his stiff legs; he hadn’t liked kneeling in the arbor to take a close look at the head. “Anyway, we’ve done all we can for the time being. In fact, to be honest, Lieutenant, I doubt if we’ll get anywhere with this investigation. This is out of our league.”

Seve was crouched down, staring at the headless body, inch by inch, as a collector might view a specimen. Whatever else happened in his life, Seve knew that he did not want to forget this moment.

Blocker waved the coroner’s unit on. “He’s all yours now.”

“Detective,” Seve said, “could I have a moment alone with my brother?”

Blocker pulled at his ear. “Sure.” He looked up. “Let’s clear out for a moment, boys, huh?”

When he was alone, Seve took a small case from its accustomed place in his hip pocket, unzipped it. Inside was an assortment of tiny metal instruments that he had accumulated over the years—the tools of his trade.

He selected a minuscule tweezers and, reaching out, slipped it into his brother’s right side pocket. It had been hidden from anyone standing, but when he had crouched down, Seve had seen a sliver of white. A slip of paper? The tweezers would bring it to him.

In a moment he had it. He stuffed it into his pocket. He was about to put away his kit when he noticed that two fingers on Dom’s right hand were bent in an awkward position. He used the end of the tweezers to prod them, saw that they had been broken by a clean, powerful blow.

Then he noticed something else. He peered more closely. From his kit he drew out a small plastic envelope and the kind of brush women use to apply blush. Quickly, he swept bits of debris from Dom’s fingertips into the envelope. He pocketed everything, then stood up and went out of the sacristy.

“Detective,” he said, “I appreciate everything you’ve done.” He deliberately put his back to the coroner’s men doing their work.

“Just my job,” Blocker said. “But thanks. No one ever does these days. Thank a cop, I mean.”

“I wonder whether you’d allow me to talk to a couple of the priests,” Seve said. “I’d like to get their impressions of my brother.” He looked at the other cop. “You know . . .”

“Sure,” Blocker said. His mind was already on a dinner that was long overdue. “Why not?” He said goodbye to them both, then disappeared around the corner of the church. They saw him driving off with the last of the investigative contingent.

“What was that all about?” Diana asked.

“When in New Canaan, kiss New Canaan butt,” Seve said. “As long as, in the end, you get what you want. It’s clear that Blocker isn’t going to get the job done. You think he cares about Dom? My brother’s death has scared him silly. That’s why he waited for me to come up from New York. Father Donnelly must have told him Dom had a brother who was a detective lieutenant on the New York City police force.”

“Are you crazy? This is Connecticut, boss,” Diana said. “You have no jurisdiction.”

“Dom makes it my jurisdiction,” Seve said. “Anyway, Blocker knows he can use all the help he can get on this one. He’s just too big a shit to come out and ask for it.”

They found Fr. Donnelly praying before the image of Christ in the sanctuary. They waited patiently until the priest was done.

“Oh.” Fr. Donnelly rose, started as he turned around. He looked at the shield Seve held out from him to inspect. “I didn’t know there were any more police officers around. I sent the others home.”

“That’s all right,” Seve assured him. He was sure Fr. Donnelly, in his agitated state, did not recognize him. “I’m Dominic Guarda’s brother.”

“Madonna,” Fr. Donnelly breathed. “I’m glad you’ve come.” He was a sallow-skinned man with a naturally dolorous expression. “I am sorry to see you under these circumstances, my son. We all grieve for Father Guarda. He was greatly loved and admired here.”

Apparently not by everyone, Seve thought. To the priest he said, “I know. It’s been a long day, Father, but I wonder whether you’d mind answering some questions.”

Fr. Donnelly nodded. “I will be only too grateful if I can be of some assistance.”

“Good,” Seve said. “I know that this will be repetitious because Detective Blocker will have asked the same questions. But bear with me. I understand you found my brother.”

Fr. Donnelly nodded.

“What happened?”

“Well, Father Guarda always meditates in the sacristy after Mass. But within a half an hour he rejoins us. When he hadn’t come out after an hour, I became concerned and went into the sacristy myself.”

“And?”

Fr. Donnelly was obviously having a difficult time. Death was hard enough to describe, but this one was devastating. “I saw him—that is, I saw the body.”

“How was he lying?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean,” Seve said, “was he on his back, his stomach?”

“His right side,” Fr. Donnelly said.

So, Seve thought, they hadn’t moved Dom until after I saw him. “And what did you do?”

“I went to him, of course,” Fr. Donnelly said. And Seve thought, Blocker told me he called the cops immediately. “He was dead. There could be no doubt—” The priest began to choke.

“Go on,” Seve said gently, after a time.

Fr. Donnelly nodded, grateful for the respite. “I prayed for him. The Lord’s Prayer: ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.’ And the Hail Mary: ‘Pray for us now, at the hour of our death.’ Then I went to inform the others, the police and the bishop.”

“And you did nothing else in the sacristy?”

“No.”

“Let’s go back a bit,” Seve went on. “Tell me, if you would, where you and the other priests were directly after Mass.”

“Well, there are no other priests, Detective. You see, in this day and age it’s a dying vocation, I’m afraid. So now the Church must employ lay people to do many of the tasks formerly assigned to assistant priests like myself. Here, at Holy Trinity, we have two such lay people, Mr. Dillon and Mr. Reed.

“In any case, to answer your question, I was talking with Mr. Atkinson, one of the parishioners. Fund-raising, you know. Mr. Atkinson often helps us in such ventures. Mr. Dillon was with me. I could see Mr. Reed on the other side of the sanctuary.”

“About how long did you talk with Mr. Atkinson, Father?”

“Oh, twenty minutes, at least,” Fr. Donnelly said. “There was a great deal to go over.”

“I see.” Seve was taking notes. “And was Mr. Dillon with you all that time?”

“Yes.”

“What about Mr. Reed?”

“He went outside,” the priest said. “Out front. One of us always does that after Mass. It was one of Father Guarda’s ideas. He felt that some of the parishioners might feel easier about speaking with us outside the church. He was right. As he was in almost everything.” There were tears in his eyes.

Seve looked down at his notes for a moment, but he wasn’t reading. He said, “Detective Blocker told me that no one saw anyone enter the sacristy while my brother was there.”

Fr. Donnelly nodded. “That’s right.”

“Well, we’re standing in the sanctuary now. Are we anywhere near where you and Mr. Dillon were when you were talking with Mr. Atkinson?”

“Just about.”

Seve craned his neck. “That’s funny,” he said, “because I can’t see the entrance to the sacristy from here.”

Fr. Donnelly looked. “No,” he said. “You’re right.”

“And it’s plain that Mr. Reed had no angle at all from the other side of the church. So, anyone could have gone into the sacristy after Mass without being seen.”

Fr. Donnelly looked pained. “I’m afraid so.”

Seve sighed inwardly. “Did you notice anyone suspicious in the congregation today, Father? A new face, perhaps?”

Fr. Donnelly looked particularly sad. “I’m not very good at faces,” he said. “They were Father Guarda’s strong suit. He knew everyone by his or her face.”

One more try, Seve thought. “Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary at Mass, Father?”

Fr. Donnelly shook his head. “Not that I can think of.” He pursed his lips. “Oh, well, someone put a thousand-dollar bill on the collection plate, but I guess that’s not what you meant.”

“Not necessarily,” Seve said. “Does that kind of contribution happen often here?”

“Oh, yes. This is a wealthy community, and Father Guarda was good at raising funds for the church. But, of course, such gifts are usually rendered by check. I cannot remember another such large cash contribution.”

Seve was intrigued. “Who passed around the collection plate, Father?”

“I did.”

“Can you remember what this person looked like?”

“Well, he was a man.” Fr. Donnelly looked at their faces and said, “That’s not a joke. I’m afraid that’s about all I can recall. I wasn’t paying much attention. And, anyway, I’m—”

“I know,” Seve finished for him, “not good with faces.”

“The others were busy during Mass and didn’t notice him, either. I’m terribly sorry, Detective. I wish I could help you more.”

Seve flipped his pad closed. “That’s okay, Father.” Unfortunately, he thought, this is typical of investigation interviews. If you weren’t careful, all the dead ends, the endless paperwork would wear you down before you found the lead that—in Seve’s experience, at least—must be there. “You’ve done your best, I’m sure.”

Fr. Donnelly nodded, but his expression said that he was not certain whether he had been of any help at all.

They were almost at the door when the priest called to them. They paused as he hurried toward them. “There is one other thing I remember,” he said. “When I was counting the money on the collection plate after Mass, I saw some powder on the thousand-dollar bill.”

“What kind of powder?” Seve asked.

“I don’t know. That is, I didn’t. I wiped it off, showed it to Mr. Dillon later on because I thought it curious. He said it was makeup.”

“Makeup?”

Fr. Donnelly nodded. “You know, flesh-colored. Like the kind women wear on their faces.”

“You wouldn’t, by chance, have kept the powder?” Seve asked.

Fr. Donnelly’s face fell. “No,” he said. “There was only a trace of it to begin with.”

“Nevertheless,” Seve said, “I wonder if you would lend me that bill. Perhaps our lab can still pick it up.”

While the priest hurried back to the rectory, Diana said, “Face makeup? What are you thinking, that your brother was murdered by a woman?”

“Do you think it’s so farfetched?”

“My God, boss, we’re talking about decapitation. We’re talking some strength.”

“How fast can you incapacitate a man?” he asked her.

“A kick in the groin is one thing,” she said. “Slicing a head off is another.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Still, it’s a mistake to dismiss any possibility before all the facts are in.”

Diana took possession of the bill while Seve signed a makeshift receipt he wrote out on a sheet torn from his notepad. “You’ll get the thousand back, Father, as soon as my lab crew is done with it. Until then, you have my thanks.”

Fr. Donnelly smiled at last. “I’m glad I could help in some material way. Take care of yourself, Detective. May God walk with you.”

Outside, the street was deserted. The arc lights in the church’s parking lot turned the surrounding trees a violet blue. In the car Seve took out the plastic envelope. “When we get back to the city, give this to the lab, along with the bill. Top priority.”

“What’s in there?” Diana asked, turning on the engine.

“Who knows?” Seve said. “Maybe nothing. Maybe a clue as to who killed my brother.”

Diana put the car in gear, and they set off. “How about some dinner?” she said. “I don’t think I can last until we get to the city.”

“I know a place near here,” Seve said, pointing to where she should turn. “Dom used to take me there when I came up to see him.” He turned on the interior light. He was looking at the Peter Loong Chun incident report he had written on the way up here, but nothing seemed to make sense. It was as if he held some alien artifact in his hands. All the while thinking, Dom, Dom, who could have done this to you? And, I can’t tell Ma, the shock’ll kill her. But I can’t hide it from her, either.

“I’ll drop the evidence at the lab,” Diana was saying, “then I’ll take you to see Elena Hu.”

Seve nodded, pressed his eyes with the pads of his fingers. I must be getting old, he thought. Eight-thirty at night, and I’m already tired. What time did I come on duty this morning? It was then that he realized that he had been working the Chung stakeout since nine last night. Oh, Christ, he thought, no wonder no one wants a part of me. There isn’t anything left to take.

“You look dead on your feet,” Diana said. “You need a mommy to tuck you into bed, not a driver to spin you all over the East Coast.”

They both heard the siren at the same time.

Seve looked at the flashing red lights in the rearview mirror. “It can’t be for speeding,” he said. “Not with our police plates.”

Diana slowed as the dark blue-and-white cop car came abreast of them.

“Lieutenant Guarda?” A uniformed sergeant leaned out the window. “NYPD?”

“That’s right.”

“Would you follow us, sir.” It was not phrased as a question.

“What the hell for?” Seve asked, annoyed. “We’ve got a schedule to keep in the city.”

“Detective Blocker would like to see you.” The sergeant gestured ahead like Ward Bond on “Wagon Train,” and, siren wailing, the cop car sped off into the night.

“And a hearty ‘Heigh-Ho, Silver’ to you, too,” Seve said as Diana stepped on the gas.

If Milhaud was certain of one thing about M. LoGrazie, it was that he could not trust him. And so, he felt comfortable with him. There was nothing like certainty, Milhaud thought, to put one at one’s ease. One knew immediately where one stood, and what measures one must take in the course of the relationship.

That was why he had had the foresight to have a listening device planted in M. LoGrazie’s residence. Not that the place wasn’t swept every day for such electronic bugs, but the maid was in Milhaud’s employ, and she had the good sense to remove his bug before the sweep and replace it afterward.

Milhaud opened the wood-paneled door into his armoire, the closet. It was a small back room perhaps, in days past, part of the servants’ quarters. It was now bristling with an impressive array of electronic equipment, not the least of which was a six-foot bank of huge-reeled tape machines. At the moment only one was running. Sitting in front of it was a small, sallow-faced man. His earphones made his face look pinched. He saw Milhaud, indicated the machine connected to M. LoGrazie’s apartment.

Milhaud sat down, put on a pair of headphones. Then he ran the tape back until he heard a tone, indicating the start of the last conversation. He set the machine to Play.

“Well, I must say, I really did not expect to find you here,” M. LoGrazie said in Milhaud’s ear. He possessed the directness of mind typical of Americans. Milhaud viewed this trait much as he would the skill of a New Guinean tribesman, with a combination of admiration and condescension.

“I’m like a spinning penny, I suppose,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Heads or tails, it doesn’t really matter. Sooner or later I’m going to land. The Old Man knows that. He just took advantage of the knowledge.” Old Man, Milhaud had learned, was the term these people used to describe the Mafia’s capo di capi, its head.

“I hear you were put in something of a bind,” Mr. LoGrazie said.

“Yeah, you could definitely say that.” The unknown man laughed. “It was fucking uncomfortable, if you want to know the truth. The Old Man really knows how to shrivel your nuts. But, as you can see, everything’s turned out all right. Maybe ’cause I’m in the company of angels.” He laughed again.

“From my point of view,” Mr. LoGrazie said, “I’m damn glad you’re here. It’s an honor working with a legend. Besides, what with all the recent public scrutiny, it’s good to know that the Old Man is still gung ho on White Tiger.”

“Never more so,” the unknown man said.

“Well, you can’t blame me for being jittery. What with the squeeze being applied across the board.”

“All the more reason that White Tiger be pushed. The Old Man feels that this operation is the only hope now. The old network out of Hong Kong, which, in any case, is inadequate to our current needs, has become compromised. I don’t know precisely how, but I suspect someone along the line has been gotten to by the DEA.” Milhaud knew he was referring to the American federal unit, the Drug Enforcement Agency. “As of now, we’re shutting down that network. Which means we need to accelerate White Tiger’s timetable. Already our street dealers are complaining. We’re running out of dope. So we’re in a squeeze. That’s why the operation has such a short fuse. The Old Man wants me to stress that we cannot afford to let it fail.”

“Full access to Terry Haye’s network is one matter; setting it running to our satisfaction is quite another,” Mr. LoGrazie said. “There are bound to be fuck-ups. Besides which, everyone experiences difficulty in Southeast Asia. Who can understand those people?”

“Leave Southeast Asia to me. In many ways I know it better than I do my own country. It’s one sinkhole of bullshit. You take a step, you’re in so deep you need a compass to tell you which way is up.”

Mr. LoGrazie laughed.

“White Tiger means control,” the unknown man said. “Control, in this case, means funds—unlimited funds. We will all get what we want, namely our absolute independence, freedom from all unthinking interference.”

“Speaking of control,” Mr. LoGrazie said. “What do you want me to do with Milhaud now?”

“Well, first, I have to congratulate you on getting him to ice Terry Haye. Haye had become a real problem. Well, shit, that bastard was always a problem. The Old Man told me it was your idea to get Milhaud to do the hit. No fuss, no muss. That was good, Frank. Very good.”

“You knew Haye in the old days, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. We were close, you could say, in ’Nam.”

“But something happened, didn’t it? I heard Haye fucked you out of—”

“Much as I’d like to stroll down memory lane with you,” the unknown man interrupted, “I’ve got other things on my mind. Such as Milhaud. As far as he’s concerned, everything’s status quo. We’re not gonna cut him out when the time comes. He’ll be as useful to us as Terry Haye was destructive.”

“I should string him along?”

“In a way. The situation has changed considerably within the last several days,” the unknown man said. “DeCordia’s been iced.”

“That’s bad.” Al DeCordia, Mr. LoGrazie knew, was one of their key people developing White Tiger through his contacts in high-level international slush funds. He had full access to the entire White Tiger personnel files.

“It gets worse,” the unknown man said. “He was decapitated.”

“Decap—”

“Read my lips, Frank. The man’s head was separated from his torso. Now that means one thing to me: Terry Haye. When Terry Haye was in ’Nam, he commanded a unit assigned to cause havoc among the North Vietnamese. SLAM, they called it.

“Haye came up with the idea of decapitating the SLAM victims. He was smart; it terrified Charlie, because in their minds it interfered with samsara, with the soul’s endless journey on the wheel of life. Anyway, something snapped in DeCordia after his daughter died last year. Naturally, he had heard of Terry; he had been in Europe quite a lot, setting his contacts in place.

“See, Frank, DeCordia wanted out. I’ve traced his recent movements. A month ago the poor baby showed up at Terry Haye’s place in Nice. He must have given Haye enough to get him moving against us. You can bet that Haye was not happy about the idea of us cutting into his action in the Shan. But something must have gone sour, and Haye had DeCordia iced in his own hometown, no less. New Canaan, Connecticut. That kind of thing is bad for business. It puts our street dealers on edge.”

“When was DeCordia killed?”

“Tuesday.”

“That was after Terry Haye was killed.” Mr. LoGrazie laughed. “What did he do, return from the dead?”

“Ain’t no laughing matter,” the unknown man cautioned. “The probability is that against explicit orders, Haye let his girlfriend, Soutane Sirik, in on what he was up to. Logic tells us that she is implicated in the murder. I want her taken care of, pronto.”

“Shall I use Milhaud?”

“I—” Here, the unknown man’s voice became unintelligible. The conversation continued, and Milhaud strained to make it out. In a moment the sounds of someone else in the room. Milhaud ran the tape back, replayed it several times until he had the volume all the way up and the tape hiss was a blizzard of sound in his ears.

“Merde!” Milhaud wondered what was missing from the tape. With each pass his sense of frustration increased. The voices were there, but he could not make out what was being said. He scribbled a note on the technician’s pad to see if that bit could be artificially amplified.

He watched the reels of the tape machine stop spinning. Now he had an explanation for M. LoGrazie’s order to murder Soutane. But, on the other hand, Milhaud was certain that the unknown man was lying about her involvement in the murder of Al DeCordia. Soutane killing a man at Terry Haye’s behest? It was absurd. What kind of game was the unknown man playing?

He wrote down on another pad what he knew of the other voice. By his accent Milhaud had pegged him as an American. It was clear that he was an expert on Indochina. In that event it was likely that Milhaud would know him or, at the very least, know of him. LoGrazie had called him a legend. A Mafia legend, expert in Southeast Asia? Milhaud racked his brain. Who could he be?

Milhaud did not know. Perhaps when the technician isolated the voice of the other man, and Milhaud heard what he had said, it would provide a clue. But that, Milhaud knew, could take too long. Certainly, it seemed imperative now to learn this man’s identity. He’d better put camera surveillance on M. LoGrazie’s residence. A long lens would at least give him a face to put with the voice.

That decided, Milhaud took off the earphones, stared into empty space. He felt with increasing urgency that a vise of the unknown man’s making was closing in around him.

He picked up the phone and, in a moment, Dante appeared. “I want to know,” Milhaud told the Vietnamese, “whether Mademoiselle Sirik knew a man named Al DeCordia. He was an American, recently murdered in the States, in a town called New Canaan, Connecticut. He was part of the Mafia’s White Tiger team. Also, find out what you can about his daughter. And while you’re at it, see if anyone knows who killed him.”

Dante nodded, and left Milhaud alone with the slowly revolving reels of tape.

Alix Layne took her time swallowing the bite of pizza. She regarded Chris coldly. “Why are you here, counselor? Is it to press charges against me for slander and defamation of character on behalf of your client?”

Chris winced. Those were almost exactly his words to her on the courthouse steps earlier today. “I deserved that.”

“You most certainly did.” Alix stood in the doorway in much the attitude with which a mother bear defends her den; her expression was wary, her stance aggressive.

Chris was abruptly overcome by a wave of fatigue. He closed his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe. “If you won’t let me in,” he said, “do you think I could have a glass of water?”

“Oh, Christ,” Alix said. “Come in.”

Shadows in the long, narrow hallway; a pair of racing bicycles were hung on the wall like some kind of modern sculpture. Chris heard the door close behind him, the sound of double locks being thrown.

She led him past the kitchen, into the living room. It was not at all as he remembered it from the party. It seemed larger somehow, and airier. Perhaps that was because there wasn’t the forest of people to contend with, or perhaps she had redecorated since then. He sat down heavily on a functional Conran’s couch covered in a warm tropical print.

“You look like you could use something a bit stronger than water,” Alix observed. “What can I get you, counselor?”

“Vodka. A vodka on the rocks would be nice,” he said. He turned to follow her as she went to the oak sideboard behind him. “I’d consider it a great personal favor if you would call me Chris.”

“I don’t recall owing you any favors,” she said, pouring him the drink. Chris wondered what he was doing here; he wondered if Bram Stryker was lurking somewhere about the apartment.

She came around the couch, handed him the vodka. He gulped at his drink and sat back on the sofa. “Won’t you sit down?” he said, as if this were not her own apartment.

“Mom?”

They both turned. A tousle-haired boy with the all-out-of-proportion face of the early teens loped into the room from the kitchen. He had a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand, a can of Cherry Coke in the other. “You coming back?”

Alix smiled, and it made all the difference in her face. That Pre-Raphaelite face. It was like seeing her for the first time. He recalled his reaction, catching a glimpse of her in court, how his heart had beat faster. How strikingly beautiful she was. Perhaps it was because she was out of her professional milieu. She did not have that perfect American face one saw in magazines and on TV. Her mouth was rather too wide, the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks was a bit too thick, and her nose was slightly crooked. But these were not flaws. They made Alix a beautiful woman in a visceral way, rather than in the one-dimensional manner of the model. Hers, he saw now, was a face to stir the blood.

“In a little while,” she said. “Darling, this is Christopher Haye. Christopher, this is my son, Dan.”

Chris got up, stuck out his hand. “Hi.” Then he realized that both the boy’s hands were full, and he let his drop.

Dan took a swig of soda. “Hey,” he said, “are you the lawyer? The Christopher Haye?”

“If you put it that way,” Chris said, “I guess I am.”

The boy’s face broke into a smile. “Hey, awesome. I did a paper on a couple of your cases last semester. I got Mom to help me on it. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Thanks,” Chris said.

When Dan had returned to the kitchen, Chris said, “Well, I made a hit with him. I didn’t know that you were married.”

“I’m not,” Alix said, “anymore.”

“Joint custody?”

“Used to be.” She had a very direct way of looking at you, he found. She tapped the crooked bridge of her nose. “Then, one day, his father hit me so hard, he broke my nose. That was when I decided to take an extensive self-defense course. I went back to court and got full custody of my son. My husband can’t come near me or Danny now.”

“That must be hard. A boy needs his father.”

They stood in the middle of the living room. Rock music came from the kitchen as Dan put on MTV.

Chris looked around at the bright curtains cleverly covering the windows dim with ubiquitous New York grime, the cases filled with books, the bleached-driftwood-and-glass coffee table, the dhurrie on the floor, the old, scarred upright piano in one corner with its brass floor lamp. A photograph, faded with age, hung above it of a clapboard country house and its attendant oak tree. A small girl in pigtails—the young Alix, perhaps—sat in a swing set within the oak’s branches, staring into the camera with an expression far too serious for a child her age. Behind her, in shadow, was the silhouette of a tall, slim man, standing as ramrod straight as a soldier. “This is a one-bedroom, isn’t it?”

Alex nodded. “The bedroom belongs to Dan.” She pointed. “You’ve been sitting on my bed.”

“I see the city’s still not paying its employees.”

She bridled a bit. “I like it here. So does Danny. I’m sure it’s tiny compared to your apartment, but it’s home.”

“It’s nice,” Chris said, sitting down again. “I like it. I didn’t before.”

“You were here before?” Alix sat on a chair upholstered in a fabric that coordinated with the sofa’s tropical print. “When?”

“Remember your housewarming? I came with Bram Stryker.”

“You’re a friend of Bram’s?”

“We shoot the breeze sometimes,” Chris said.

“He handled my divorce. He got me back full custody of Danny when that bastard broke my nose.”

“Umm.”

“What does that mean?”

Chris put down his drink. He hadn’t eaten since his meal with Marcus Gable, and the vodka was taking effect. “It means umm. Nothing.” He had to stand up, walk around the room. His stomach was rumbling, and he had an intimation that he was about to say or do something he might regret. “So,” he said, “are you and old Bram still hitting the hay?”

Alix jumped up. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve.”

He turned to watch her face. “Yes, well, my father told me the same thing when I discovered he was cheating on my mother.” He smiled. He felt like a vessel out of sight of land, devoid of ties, adrift, free. “I told him that she was my mother; that made it my business. I slapped him across the face. Did I mention that my father is Welsh? The Welsh have a saying, ‘Let all the blood be in front of you,’ which means, my father explained, always face the enemy.

“Well, anyway, six months later he divorced my mother, and within a year she was dead. So, you see, my slapping him had no effect whatsoever. He remarried quite soon afterward. Well, he remarried twice, really. He’s on this third now.”

“I’m not your mother,” Alix said. “What makes this your business?”

Now Chris knew what he was going to say and do that he might regret. “Just this.” He came around from behind the sofa, took Alix in his arms, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

She pulled her head away. Her gray eyes watched him. “If you think I’m going to like that,” she said, “you’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Don’t look so damned smug. Women only melt in the movies. And then it’s only when the hero takes them in his arms.” Her eyes gazed at him steadily. “You’re no hero.”

“Not yet, anyway,” he said, and kissed her again.

“I was right the first time,” she said. “You do have a hell of a nerve.”

“Well, you were right about one thing. I haven’t even thought of taking on a pro bono case in a year and a half.”

“Umm.”

“What do you mean, umm?”

She smiled. “Just that. Nothing.”

“You were right about something else as well,” Chris said. “I think, now, that Marcus Gable killed his wife.”

“Forget it,” Alix said. “It’s water under the bridge.”

“What do you mean, forget it? I’d like nothing better than to nail him.”

Alix laughed. “My God, you sound like a spurned lover. So he lied to you. So what? He lied to just about everyone else. What makes you special?”

“I was his attorney.”

“Judging by your reputation, it seems to me that was a particularly good reason for him to withhold the truth from you.”

Chris looked at her.

“Well, whatever other kind of bastard he might be, Bram is certainly loyal,” she said. “He thinks the world of you.”

“I always thought he was too busy to notice,” Chris said.

“With his female clients, you mean.” Alix nodded. “I discovered a while ago that I was one in a long and unending line.”

“What did you do?”

She smiled. “I never did care for crowds. But, at my urging, we’re still friends. That was a first, too, according to Bram.”

“What else was a first?”

She laughed. “If Danny wasn’t here, I’d show you.” And, putting her hands at the nape of his neck, she drew his head down again. Her lips softened, opened. He felt her tongue probing, he felt her heat against him.

Unbidden, rising like a phoenix from the ashes, a memory of Terry home on leave in his army uniform. Terry, the returning hero, whom everyone despised because he was in ’Nam, where, everyone knew, America should not be. Terry being congratulated by their father, who, remembering Suez, India, and the other global disasters that ultimately crushed the British Empire, appreciated the American military presence in Southeast Asia. Watching him with tears in his eyes as he poured a drink for Terry and then, wrapping his arms around him as he had never done to Chris, kissing his favorite son on both cheeks.

And Chris, looking helplessly on, just returned from his self-imposed exile in France, limping on a damaged leg, all dreams of wearing the yellow jersey into Paris, riding on a wave of emotion too wild to support, destroyed in a moment in the rain, an outsider in his own family.

The Tour de France was a memory he’d just as soon forget. And what else had he from his exile, but in the interstices of his training, bashing at his old portable typewriter, trying to draft the novel, to be the writer he had always longed to be, coming home with a limp and an utterly hopeless manuscript?

Whatever else had occurred in that summer of the Tour de France was surrounded by memories of places and people much too painful to bring into focus anymore. He had spent many years trying to forget, wanting to forget, and finally, succeeding.

You’re no hero, Alix had said. Chris thought, She doesn’t know the half of it.

Soutane did not know what to do, so she went back to Mun. Her cousin made her feel safe, as Terry had for most of the time she had known him. But she had also been physically involved with Terry and, because of what Mun had taught her, she was aware of how much that form of love could color one’s judgment.

Mun lived in a thirteenth-century villa in Vence. It had been a crumbling shambles when he and Soutane had first come upon it years ago, a mere shell of what had once been the magnificent residence of the most powerful bishop of Vence.

She had thought her cousin mad to buy what she saw as a rough pile of stones and mortar. But Mun had seen something else. “I have been witness to so much destruction,” he told her as he supervised a small army of workmen he had hired to restore the villa, “that it is important to me that I restore something to lasting beauty.”

Slowly, lovingly, Mun had overseen the rebuilding of the Roman stone outer wall. In Tarascon, to the west, he discovered a set of carved wooden gates, depicting the coronation of the Virgin, which he had transported to Vence.

He had the terra-cotta tiles of the shallow Roman-style roof replaced and, within the eaves, the glazed tiles of the genoise cleaned by hand.

There was a stand of cypresses to the north of the villa, which protected the building from the direct wrath of the mistral. To the south, white-barked plane trees rose like gnarled, arthritic hands, provided shade in summer, while, farther down the rock-strewn slope on which the villa was set, a copse of ancient lotus trees ensured absolute privacy.

Most people thought Mun and Soutane looked alike. The cousin was a bit taller, his shoulders broader, but every bit as square as Soutane’s. The main difference was that Mun’s face had a more weathered appearance, as if he had truly become a Provençal farmer.

“You do not look at all well,” Mun said. They were sitting in the courtyard around which the U-shaped villa was set. It was filled with pink blossoming almond trees, mimosa, wild roses. The unmistakable scents of wild thyme and marjoram were in the air. Ivy wound like a maypole around a stone fountain carved in the shape of a pair of leaping dolphins, out of whose mouths water clattered onto clear azure tiles.

Sunlight, breaking now and then through slate clouds, fired the treetops as it struck the hillsides of La Gaude, the pre-Alps, rising above the villa.

“I want to know,” Soutane said, “what Terry was mixed up in.”

Bowls had been laid out on a mosaic table, filled with strawberries from Carpentras, black olives from Nyons, and calissons, almond candy, from Aix.

Mun smiled, reminding her of images of Buddha throughout Southeast Asia. He spread his hands helplessly. “Why do you ask me such a question?”

“Do you mean you don’t have an answer? Terry often came to you for advice. Did he come for help as well?”

“Help, no,” Mun said. “It seems odd to me to remind you that he was a very independent man. He did not like owing anyone anything.”

“You were always adept at answering questions this way,” she said. “But I am family. Clever evasions won’t satisfy me.”

“Terry’s dead,” Mun said. “Spirits must have their rest, too.” By which, she knew, he meant leave it alone.

“I must know, Mun. I need to know.”

“He died in a church,” Mun said. “I wonder whether that was a terrible thing for him.”

Soutane closed her eyes, and it seemed to her that her mind shuddered. “Terry may have been killed, but my love for him remains. There is much more, isn’t there, that remains.”

Mun was watching her with that Buddha look of his. “Enlighten me, then.”

Soutane took a deep breath, told him she had found that someone had been searching her apartment when she had returned home that night, how she had seen someone watching the apartment from the street below.

She was curious, as she spoke, at the change that came over her cousin. He no longer looked half asleep, calmly detached from the recent events in her life. He sat on the edge of his seat, alert and stiff as a sentinel.

“You are certain nothing besides your undergarment was taken?” Mun said after she had finished. “Absolutely certain?”

“Yes. Besides, why else would I still be under surveillance? If he had found what he was looking for, he’d have no more use for me.”

Mun relaxed noticeably, and Soutane said, “Then you know what he was looking for.”

“No,” Mun said, but she was not sure she believed him. What was he keeping from her? Soutane had come here to be reassured but, instead, she was becoming more frightened by the moment.

Soutane was staring at her cousin. She decided that, even if he would not confide in her, she must trust in him. She handed over the postcard that Terry had written to Chris, just before his death.

She tried to decipher Mun’s expression while he read it. “Will you please tell me what is happening?”

He looked up. “Why have you given this to me?” Blank-faced.

“Stop it!” she cried. She snatched the postcard from his fingers. It was maddening, this blank wall he was presenting to her. “I know you think you’re protecting me,” she said.

“Only from yourself.”

“No!” Soutane said it sharply. This was what she had been afraid of. “I won’t have you bringing that up! I’ve warned you about it.”

Mun said nothing. He had not moved all this time. The golden light, stealing down from the high slopes, washed the courtyard, extending serpentine shadows along the stone pathways, into the tiled recesses of the villa.

“Still it must come,” Mun said at last. “Always it must come.”

“I forbid it!” Soutane cried.

“You said it yourself.” Mun held his hands in his lap as if he could catch the last of the light. “You come here and beg me to tell you secrets, yet you forbid the ramifications of those secrets. No one lives in a vacuum, Soutane. You must acknowledge that which you are.” Mun’s voice echoed amid the almond trees, the mimosa, the wild roses.

“What I have become, you mean.” Soutane focused on the stony hillside, cool with groves of olive trees. In the space of an instant she had changed. Now there was a granitic core forming beneath her skin, but there was calmness, as well, that was just as striking. “It was you who trained me.”

“Those were evil times,” Mun reflected. “I did it to protect you from my enemies. Unwittingly, I made you into something you obviously could not live with.”

She was quiet for some time, watching the sunlight creep across the ancient stonework. At last she said, “Did you think that I would try to kill myself again, after Terry died?”

“I admit the thought crossed my mind.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, it was only grief I felt, not self-hatred. I hadn’t killed anyone this time.”

“You killed my best friend to save me,” Mun said. “How can you hate yourself for that?”

“I killed, period,” she said. “I have the power. You can’t understand it because it was you who gave me that power.”

“Both of us have it,” Mun said. “Do you think it matters that your father was French? We are family. We are all we have. All that matters.”

She cocked her head to one side. “And Terry changed all that, didn’t he?”

“I loved Terry,” Mun said, watching the water play against the fountain. “We were closer than brothers.”

“Because you killed together—you killed for each other.”

“That was a long time ago.”

She nodded. “But hardly forgotten.”

“Even the dead, Soutane, cannot forget.”

“Ah, damn you.” Her voice was just a whisper. Her eyes were wet with tears as she accepted the truth.

Mun took her hands in his, gently stroked the palms as he had done when, as a child, she had been ill or afraid. Soutane could see through the cypress trees a farmer silhouetted by the light. How uncomplicated life must be for him, she thought. He worked, he ate, slept, loved, and worked again. She longed now for that kind of rough simplicity.

“What about that postcard Terry wrote to his brother?”

“It’s odd,” Mun admitted, “particularly since the two were apparently estranged. Why contact him now? And then there is the unwritten postscript. What did Terry mean to write?”

“Perhaps we’ll find out,” Soutane said. “I called Chris. I’m to meet him at the Nice airport when he flies in tomorrow to pick up Terry’s body.”

“Considering your history with him, do you really think that’s wise?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t have a choice. You trained me too well.”

“You’ve been busy,” Mun said, “without me.”

“It may be nothing. Chris said that he had received nothing from Terry recently.”

“So he says. In any event I think it would be a good idea if you brought him here so that I can speak with him.”

“Interrogate him, you mean.”

“I will not be here when you bring him. Stay, make him comfortable. Wait for me.” He caught her eyes in his steady gaze. “Is that clear?”

She nodded. “There is still the man who is following me.”

“Yes.” Mun had that Buddha look again.

“I don’t know what I can do now,” she said.

Mun regarded her. “You know precisely what you must do. You knew it from the moment you saw the man watching you from the shadows. You must let him find you.”

“No,” Soutane said emphatically. “You know where that can lead.”

Mun’s eyes pierced her, making her shiver. “You brought your suspicions here,” he said. “You have already made your choice.” He continued to watch her. “You must see that none of this would have happened but for your love for Terry. You cannot renege. You must find out why this man is following you.”

The scents of wild thyme and marjoram were stronger now, almost cloying.

“What will I have to do?” Soutane asked with despair.

“Nothing that you are not well equipped to do,” Mun assured her.

“I will not kill again!” But she was thinking, It’s happening all over again, just like some awful nightmare. Worse, she knew that it was a nightmare from which she could not awake.

“Think of Terry.” Mun’s eyes were closed. “Think, if you must, of Chris.”

The dolphins spewed their sparkling water onto the azure tiles.

They had set up a field of arc lights under the elms because there was no other illumination near the ditch that ran obliquely through the fields. Detective Blocker’s face was shiny with sweat. His skin looked like parchment about to peel.

“Goddammit!” he was saying as Seve and Diana came into the field of arc lights. “Goddammit!” The buzz of the portable generator drowned out the drone of the cicadas.

He looked up at the pair’s approach. “Will you look at this now?” he said, pointing at his feet. “Will you just look at this?”

One of his men drew the tarp back. A man lay crumpled, belly down in the ditch. The remarkable thing was that his head lay six inches away from the stump of the neck.

“Another one!” Blocker exclaimed with some outrage. “Killed the same way.”

“Who found the body?” Diana asked.

“A couple of kids out here to neck. We got their statements and released them. They were shitfaced with fear.”

“Have you made an ID yet?” Diana asked. Seve was already sliding down the short embankment. There was blood all over the place but, unlike in the sacristy, here it had seeped into the earth.

“Man’s name is DeCordia, Al DeCordia,” Blocker said, turning an expensive alligator-skin wallet over. “That’s according to the stuff in here—driver’s license, credit cards, Blue Cross—Jesus, he won’t need that now.”

Seve was looking at the neck, noting the same crenellated pattern in the flesh that he had seen in Dom’s, as if his brother and this man had been killed by getting caught in the same bear trap. But, of course, that wasn’t possible.

“This guy’s local,” Blocker continued. “Here, look at this.” He handed DeCordia’s business card to Diana. There was a handwritten note on the back, a reminder DeCordia had obviously written to himself. “Lives down at the end of Lost District Drive, very tony along there, houses go for multiple millions. We haven’t had time to notify the family, so, of course, nobody’s given us a positive ID yet.” Diana was busy taking notes. “Lot of money still in the wallet—over five thousand—so we can eliminate robbery as a motive.”

Seve had turned his attention to the fingers. None of them was broken, and there was no trace of powder or any other debris.

“Anyone touch the body?” he asked.

“Photo boys aren’t even here yet.” Blocker sighed. It looked as if he was never going to eat dinner tonight. “This really sucks,” he said to no one in particular.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Seve said, climbing out of the ditch, “I’d like you to send me copies of the coroner’s report on this one, too.”

“Sure,” Blocker said wearily, “why not? It’s just more paper to push around. I’ve got the time, haven’t I? Don’t I look like I’ve got the time?”

“Thanks, Detective,” Seve said as he steered Diana back to their car. “I appreciate it.”

He didn’t say another word until they were on the highway, heading south. “Whoever killed this guy, DeCordia, also killed Dom. Same MO, same odd markings on the flesh.” He closed his eyes. The endless stream of oncoming headlights was giving him a headache. “What the hell could have been used to decapitate them?” He sighed. “Did we have dinner, or did I dream that?”

“You dreamed it, boss.”

“Then stop at the next place you see.”

It was a diner whose outside was made of fake fieldstone, and whose inside was made of fake marble. The hamburger, french fries, coffee, and cherry cheesecake might have been fake as well, because they felt like they were going to dissolve his stomach on their way to his bowels. He made a mental note to start eating more healthfully, knowing full well he wouldn’t.

Back in the car, he popped some Maalox and said, “I want you to stay on Blocker’s tail about this. I’ve got a feeling that the coroner’s reports are going to tell us a lot I can only guess at now.”

“Do you think this Al DeCordia is tied in with your brother?”

“Maybe. They were killed by the same man, in the same town, though not necessarily at the same time,” Seve said. “On the other hand, we could be dealing with a serial madman, which is what has Blocker scared shitless. And he has good reason to be. This guy, DeCordia, has been lying in the ditch a couple of days, at least, so what the connection with Dom might be, if there is any, I have no idea.”

The word “connection” set off a bell in his mind and, turning on the car’s interior light, he pulled out the crumpled slip of paper.

“I extracted this from the crime scene,” he told Diana as he opened it up. “It was in Dom’s right pocket. He was lying on that side, and it was hidden from view.”

“Not from you,” she said. She began to overtake a semi. “I thought you told us not to muck around at the crime scene until the forensic people were through.”

“That was before I met Detective Blocker.”

It was meant as a joke, but neither of them laughed. Diana was absolutely loyal to Seve. She had, over the years they had worked together, put her life on the line for him. She would not hesitate to do so again. And it was precisely because of this loyalty—because she loved and believed in him, in what he stood for, absolutely—that she wondered privately about what had come over him. It seemed to her as if his brother’s death had transformed him. He wanted—no, it was far stronger than that, she decided—he needed to find his brother’s killer.

Sitting next to him, hurtling down the Connecticut turnpike in the dead of night, Diana wondered whether this need would create in him an obsession. Seve had always been a man of the people. The needs of society always came before his own. Now, she suspected, that had begun to change. Not that she could not understand the imperative he must feel. But what if that imperative caused him to abandon his ideals? She had already seen him lie to a fellow officer, cadge evidence from a crime scene out of his jurisdiction, and then withhold that evidence from the officer in charge. Diana had never thought that he was capable of even one of those breaches of procedure.

Beside her, Seve was staring down at the crumpled slip of paper. It contained three lines written in an unknown but odd, backward slanting hand and, below it, one word written in his brother Dom’s easily identifiable, cramped writing. This is what Seve read:

Soutane Sirik

67, Boulevard Victor Hugo

Nice, France

Saved?

Chris and Alix, constrained by the presence of the teenage boy in the kitchen, sat on the fire escape outside the wide-open bedroom window. Rock music insinuated itself through the apartment, out into the soft space between them.

“For a long time,” Alix said, “I thought of myself as Danny’s mother. When you’re a woman, it’s sometimes difficult to separate your existence from your child’s life. At the very least the child takes over your life to such an extent that there just isn’t much left over.”

There was still some rain and, though, for the most part, they were protected by the building’s overhang, here and there drops, like a tiara of diamonds, glistened in her hair. “But, after a time, I came to understand that whatever pleasure he provided—and it was considerable—wasn’t going to be enough for me. I was beginning to lose myself in him, which I thought wasn’t going to be good for either of us.”

“So you joined the DA’s office,” Chris said.

She smiled. “It wasn’t that easy. I had to separate myself from him. There was the bar exam.” Her smile faded. “And then my marriage was disintegrating in a slow and painful fashion.”

“I’m sorry.”

That same smile again, so small yet so transforming. “I never know whether to say ‘don’t be’ or ‘thank you.’ I suppose I want to say both. It’s worked out for the best.”

She cocked her head as a song familiar to her drifted through the house. For a moment she sang along in a tentative voice, and it seemed as if all tension drained out of her. She stopped singing. Her eyes were bright, glittery. “And what about you?” she said. “You look more like an athlete than a lawyer.”

He laughed at the precision of her eye. Somewhat to his surprise he found that her assessment pleased him. “I used to be an athlete,” he said. “A bicycle racer.”

“No kidding.” She raised her eyebrows. “I love biking. Danny and I ride as often as we can.”

“I noticed the bikes in the hallway,” Chris said. “They’re good ones.”

“Where did you race?”

“Oh, just about everywhere,” Chris said, looking out into the night. “Mainly, though, I was training for the Tour de France.”

“Your family must have been very proud of you,” Alix said.

That surprised him. Most people would have asked, Did you win? “No,” he said, “they didn’t seem to care much one way or the other.”

“How awful.”

Yes, Chris thought. Awful, indeed. He sighed. “I suppose,” he said, “that all I was looking for was a ‘well done’ from my father. My mother was dead by the time I raced in France. But all my father cared about was my older brother, Terry. Terry, you see, had enlisted in the army and, while I was in France, riding, he was in Vietnam, defending America, justice, and freedom. Everything my father holds dear. I was the runaway, the coward, the ingrate who would not serve the country that had nurtured him.” Even now, after so many years, he could not tell anyone what had really happened during the summer. “At least, that’s how my father saw it.”

“A hawk.”

“Superhawk, more like it,” Chris said.

“And what happened when you raced the Tour de France?” Alix asked.

“I got hurt.” His standard answer, when he chose to give one at all. It was not the truth, either—at least, not the whole truth.

“Badly?”

Yes, he thought. Very badly. He had meant to answer her, but when he spoke, he said, “I’m leaving for France tomorrow night. My brother has been killed.”

“Oh, Christopher, I’m so sorry,” Alix said.

Christopher, he thought. That’s what my father calls me. He saw the concern on Alix’s face. I wonder, he thought, if I’m as sorry as she is about Terry? “I don’t seem able to feel much of anything one way or another,” he said.

“You and your brother weren’t close?”

Chris gave a sardonic laugh. “You could say that. We hadn’t had any contact for ten years or more. Now I don’t know that we knew one another at all.”

Alix moved closer to him. “How sad.”

He felt her near him, and was stirred. Not in a sexual way but, rather, because when he was next to her he did not feel that black abyss that the news of Terry’s death had engendered in him; he did not feel alone.

“For years I blamed my father for that,” Chris said. “He was fond of pitting us against each other; he believed that conflict built character. My father is big on character. He comes from stern Welsh stock. ‘The Hayes are fighters,’ he’d say.

“Well, in those days, when we were young, I suppose my father was the most convenient target. He was strict, often harsh with us. The first kind word I ever heard him speak to either of us was when Terry came home from ’Nam after his first tour of duty. But Terry’s death has set me to thinking. If Terry and I never got to know one another, whose fault was it, really? I’m not sure that we, ourselves, ever tried to find out.”

“You were right,” Dante said. “There was a link between Soutane Sirik and Al DeCordia.” Milhaud’s heart sank. Could he have been wrong about the unknown man? Had he been telling M. LoGrazie the truth about Soutane and Al DeCordia?

“Apparently,” Dante went on, “DeCordia met her when he was over here a month ago visiting Terry Haye. DeCordia’s daughter had just died. Her car went out of control in the rain. She was nineteen.”

Dante was consulting his notebook. “Anyway, DeCordia formed an attachment to the Sirik girl. Her parents are dead, and she must have seen him as a father figure. DeCordia, it seems, was like that—a people person. The death of his daughter really broke him up.”

With his heart in his mouth Milhaud said, “Did Mademoiselle Sirik kill him?”

“Not a chance,” Dante said. “She was here in France when DeCordia got hit.”

Relief flooded through Milhaud with such intensity that he felt his eyes beginning to overflow with tears. He quickly swiveled away from Dante, staring out the window at the École Militaire and the Parc du Champ de Mars. Thank God, he sighed inwardly. Now I can get on with finding out what the unknown man is really up to.

“Do you know who killed DeCordia?”

“No,” Dante said. “I couldn’t find out anything about that except that he was beheaded, which is an odd way to go.”

Odd is right, Milhaud thought. Odd, too, that the unknown man on the tape would know so much about Terry Haye’s Vietnam SLAM unit, more even than he did. Milhaud had not known about the decapitation idea that Terry Haye had come up with in Vietnam. Now someone had used it again to kill Al DeCordia. Why?

But immediately Milhaud realized that was not the primary question. First he had to ask himself why DeCordia had been killed. Since Soutane thought of him as a father figure, it was inconceivable that Terry had had anything to do with murdering him, as the unknown man had suggested.

On the other hand, DeCordia and Terry Haye had met a month ago. What did they discuss? They were ostensibly enemies. White Lion, which Al DeCordia was a part of, was set up to cut Terry Haye out of his network. Did DeCordia want out of White Lion, as the unknown man had suggested on the tape? Had he shopped the operation to Haye, the opposition? If so, it was more than likely that the Mafia itself was responsible for DeCordia’s death. But if so, then the unknown man, who was a representative of the families’ capo di capi, would know about it.

Milhaud sat back and contemplated the intrinsic irony of life. He had unearthed the answer to one question, but it had brought him no closer to the truth he was seeking. Now he was faced with an enigma whose implications had already begun to ripple dangerously outward.

The highway was a ribbon of concrete and tarmac, shining like chrome in the man-made sodium light of midnight. M. Mabuse, thinking of death and destruction, idly flicking on the radio, spinning the dial, coming upon Van Morrison singing,

Sometimes I wish I could fly up in the sky
Sometimes I wish I could fly like a bird up in the sky
A little closer to home.

His hand stopped, and it was as if his mind, dark and dangerous, had come to a halt as the words and the haunting melody cascaded over him.

Sometimes I feel like freedom is near
Sometimes I feel like freedom is here
But I’m so far from my home.

Now those words seemed to grip him in a way he had thought impossible. Western music meant nothing to him. Normally, he found it bland and insipid, reinforcing his longing for the plangent melodies, the aching lyrics of the music of home.

But this song was different. It broke through layers of iron and steel to touch with a gentle finger his beating heart.

Sometimes I feel it’s closer now
Sometimes I feel the Kingdom is at hand
But we’re so far from home.

The highway ribboning out began to blur, the colors to coalesce into a vast swirl of emotion that, welling up inside his chest, threatened to choke him in its intensity.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
A long, long way from my home.

He was weeping now, he was certain of it. And, oh, how it hurt him, the scars regressing to open wounds again, and he thought, I cannot stand it. Turned off the radio, the voice dying, silence, the dark spider at his core, weaving its insidious web once again inside him.

M. Mabuse with his foot a bit too heavy on the accelerator, now, as if to escape his own emotions, because the spinning red light blossomed in his rearview mirror like a malevolent poppy.

He slowed, obediently pulling onto the verge, by the side of a steep, grassy embankment, engine ticking like a bomb in the wide breakdown lane in the midst of the purple Connecticut countryside. Beside him his portable library, a stock of government studies, digests of scientific papers, and journals of technological advertising. J. G. Ballard, one of the few authors who interested M. Mabuse, had written that this agglomerate, this “invisible literature,” had to a great extent transfigured modern culture. M. Mabuse had decided that was a subject worthy of further study.

He watched the lurid lights set into stanchions by the side of the road, reading the message left for him in their kinetic aureoles. It admonished him for his sins lest he forget the bombings, acid firestorms engulfing entire forests, whole villages, the eerie whooshing sound all-encompassing,­ like nats—or saints—grinding their teeth in anguish, downing out whatever last vestiges of human outcry had been made.

He looked up, almost startled to see that he was not all alone with his torment. Mirror-lensed sunglasses dominated a big, beefy face, folds of reddened flesh spilling over the tight, dark blue collar.

“You were over the limit,” the cop said. “License and registration.” Bending over to peer through the open car window.

M. Mabuse, straining still to hear the cries over the inhuman rushing of the bombs, pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open, drew out the identification that he had laminated into a plastic shell.

He imagined in loving detail the police car parked behind him smashing at one hundred miles an hour into a concrete abutment. He smiled up at the cop as he offered the ID. As the cop reached for it, M. Mabuse’s hand accelerated. Flicking out, it drew the edge of the plastic shell across the cop’s throat. Blood bloomed, as bright red as the burning light that swung through the car’s interior with dull regularity.

The cop coughed, his mouth opening wide in disbelief. M. Mabuse saw his hand fumbling with his holstered gun, drew the man’s head and shoulders through the car window until the cop’s thick upper torso was pinioned there. Then he leisurely reached up, jamming his stiffened thumbs under the mirror-lensed sunglasses, plunging them deep into the cop’s sockets.

The scream was just what M. Mabuse needed to hear, confirmation of the pain human beings suffer as they are dying, beating back for that fleeting moment the eerie sounds of the bombs rushing downward through smoke-filled skies.

In the damp grass, at the rim of the highway, M. Mabuse watched with a manic intensity the ribbons of color pass him by, the endless lines of cars, of humanity, trooping like soldiers to the final battle.

But out where he crouched, alone in the darkness of a midnight that never ended, there was only space, limitless, undefined, an emptiness more terrible by far than death.

Alix Layne was staring at the faded black-and-white photo of herself in the oak-tree swing. She sat on the piano stool, leaning on her forearms, which were crossed over the wooden top.

It was very quiet in the apartment. Dan was asleep, finally, after reading in bed until three. The girl upstairs had stopped her flute exercises and, thank God, the Connors next door had finished their quotidian fight.

The windows were open wide, but even the rush of traffic was subdued. Occasionally, Spanish voices were raised in altercation or laughter, like brief communiqués from another world.

And Christopher Haye was gone.

Alix wondered what to make of Christopher Haye. Or, more accurately, what to make of her feelings for him. After many boyfriends, six or seven love affairs, and a twelve-year marriage, Alix was still waiting for her knight in shining armor. You’re no hero, she had said to Christopher.

She had met her husband, Dick, in college. He was a radical, wry and gifted—at least when he was focused in on a cause, like the war in Vietnam. She remembered the time he had publicly debated with the college dean on the pros and cons of the war. She had been so proud of him.

But after the war, it seemed, Dick’s focus had spun away. While she was working by day and going to law school at night, Dick was trying to write the great American novel that would sum up the state of the nation in the post-Vietnam era.

At first, money was no problem. There was Alix’s job at Saks Fifth Avenue, and her law-school tuition and expenses were being paid with a trust her grandfather had left her for this purpose.

But, gradually, it became clear that Dick couldn’t or wouldn’t write anything at all, let alone the great American novel. Instead, he seemed to take his frustrations out on her, waiting until she got home after classes, exhausted from her dual life, to vent his anger.

Alix, who spent her nights learning the American justice system, coming to appreciate its innate fairness and egalitarianism, had been in no frame of mind to hear this. Nevertheless, Dick persisted.

And so it went. Until he insisted that she have a baby. “We’re not a family,” he said. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with us. We’re two separate people, in their own separate orbits. A baby will bring us together. It will bring us peace.”

But, instead, the child had fractured what was already a fragile situation. Dan’s birth polarized two people who were already slipping away from one another.

For one thing, Alix resented the further burden her pregnancy put on her. Dick still had not gotten a job, though he claimed to be out searching for one every day. “There’s nothing out there, I tell you,” he would say. “Nothing but laborers’ work.” Alix, still working behind the Clinique counter in Saks, found this irony tough to take.

But take it she did, because she had thought she loved Dick. She suspected that she would never again find a man who knew what it was she liked, and when. Certainly, she knew that never again would she be able to duplicate the fascinating, complex discussions she and Dick had had on world politics, religion, history, and art. He was not, like her previous lovers, dense when it came to understanding, or to emotion, two things that were of profound importance to her. He was so smart, so knowing, such a good lover, and so tender and patient with Dan.

Staring now at the photo of her as a child growing up in Ohio, she felt tears come to her eyes. How she longed to sit in that swing again, beneath the cool shade of the oak tree. She closed her eyes, could feel the strong, comforting presence of her grandfather. She could smell his warm scent, a little spicy with cologne, a bit musky with tobacco—how she loved it when, laughing with delight, he let her fill his pipe for him!

She could feel the vitality of him as his square, work-roughened hands gripped the ropes, setting the swing to vibrating. “Ready, Princess?” he would whisper in her ear. Then he would give one powerful push, and she would be off.

Why had her marriage failed? Even after all this time, Alix could not stop asking that question. It had not been that they had simply ceased to love one another, as had been the case with so many of their friends from college.

How easy the present would be, Alix thought, if she had discovered that Dick was having an affair. That was like finding roaches in your apartment, it was cut and dried, you knew what to do, get the Black Flag out, and go to it. Had Dick been fooling around, she could have accepted that, a pothole in the road of life, we all have to hit some once in a while. All her friends could sympathize, she was now a member of, as it were, the club. She could hate him, feel confident in that hate, and understand what had transpired to place her in this present.

But life was never that uncomplicated. She remembered a winter when her grandfather had taken her to fish in a frozen lake. Staring down through the ice, she had seen something moving, a shadow, nothing more. And she was unaccountably frightened, not knowing what was down there, and what it portended.

The fact was that Dick had never been unfaithful to her. Even now, she knew from the unceasing letters he wrote her (after she refused to take his calls) that he still loved her, that she was, in his own words, the only woman he ever loved, whom he ever would love.

The end of her marriage was like that gray day on the frozen lake, peering under the ice with a mixture of terror and fascination. Something mysterious and unknown was moving there. Dick simply could not deal with what she had become: a success not only in the world—from Dick’s viewpoint that was bad enough (“What happened,” he wrote, “to the good, old days when I could always find you smelling good at Saks?”)—but in a field of endeavor dominated by men. If only she had wanted to be something else, a therapist or a teacher, perhaps, something feminine—or, at least, unisex—he could have forgiven her those desires.

When it all came out like a torrent of filth from a long pent-up sewer, that was bad enough. But he also succeeded in making Alix feel as if the marriage breakup had been her fault. Her fault that she had wanted to be a lawyer; her fault that she was successful. As if ambition and success were deficiencies.

Which meant that in a way she was still not free of Dick even though they did not live together, she no longer carried his name (though, of course, Dan did, like baggage from another lifetime), and he no longer had visitation rights. If, she thought, I have done such a thorough job of cutting him off, how is it that I still feel the bastard’s claws in my back?

With a sigh she got up. Outside, someone was playing on a harmonica a tune, whose name she could not remember, from Rubber Soul. She went into the bathroom to brush her teeth, and saw herself in the mirror. She remembered the look in Christopher Haye’s eyes when she had laughed. Perhaps—was it possible?—that was the first time he had seen her laugh.

All her life people had told Alix that she was beautiful, but she did not particularly believe it. She would listen dreamily, as if they were talking about someone else, someone in a film. Because when she looked at herself, all she could see were the faults: mouth too wide, nose not straight, the list was too long and too depressing to trot out at a moment’s notice. That was saved for when she really wanted to beat up on herself, for those times when she looked at Dan, and thought, as Christopher Haye had said, that the boy needed a daddy, too.

Christopher Haye. Her thoughts kept running back to him, like a river to the sea. She had been aware of him for a long time, aware that she was attracted to him. But she had done nothing about that attraction. And now that he had made the first move, how would she respond? In truth, she did not know. She was tired of being disappointed by men, but she still loved them enough not to be defeated. Never defeated.

In her mind the Beatles song from Rubber Soul, plaintive on the harmonica, drifted back through the years. Until she was dancing again with her grandfather, on the wide, warped steps of their house in Ohio, wind shivering the oak leaves, a whippoorwill adding counterpoint to the music, and thick, lemon light cascading over them from the parlor.

Life was so simple then. Alix had been so happy.

What had happened?

Soutane sat down under the striped awning of Le Safari. The restaurant had been a favorite of Terry’s, the one in which the photo of them had been taken.

Terry had preferred it because it was at the eastern end of Nice, well past the opera house where the tourists flooded the streets. Soutane liked it because, in the cool beneath Le Safari’s awning, one could watch romantic strollers idling away the morning amid the flower stalls of the open-air market on Cours Saleya.

It was late enough now so that most of the shoppers were gone. Many of the stalls were already closed, and those that were still open had little left in the way of goods. Sellers were hosing down their individual areas or leaning on their counters, gossiping among themselves while they smoked or drank a bit of wine.

Soutane had chosen this time, and this spot, after careful consideration. She had returned from Mun’s villa in Vence late last night. Which was why she was here now, sipping a Campari and soda at Le Safari. Her unknown shadow had been looking for something in the house—something of Terry’s. He hadn’t found it. But he obviously needed to find out where it was or, alternatively, who had it. Which was why he was still following her.

Through dark glasses she watched the activity at the flower market winding down. The sun was very strong and, it being overhead, there were almost no shadows. She had chosen this time of day—late morning—because there would be just the right amount of people on the street. If she had come earlier, she would have risked missing her tail in the throngs that clogged the market. Later in the day the street would be emptier. A tail would be more cautious, and she might miss him then, too.

Soutane had no illusions about herself. She knew she was beautiful, and desirable as well, which was not always the case in women. She had golden skin, and features that appeared as much Polynesian as they were Asian. She wore her black hair long, pulled back from her wide forehead in a thick plait. Her only piece of jewelry was a ring of carved red jade that was precious because Terry had given it to her.

She knew that, too, she was far from typical. Her spirit had been forged in the furnace of suffering. She was of French-Khmer parentage, and this had shaped her spirit. It forced her to be strong.

It had been her Cambodian mother’s misfortune to fall in love with power. She had married a Frenchman. But the strength this conflict provided—being married to a member of the ruling colonial power in Cambodia—also had its negative side. The often bitter love between her parents, born of her mother’s sorrow and anger at what had become of her country at the hands of the French, had hardened her, setting up its own conflict that resonated through Soutane’s life. This steellike temper went against her mother’s Buddhist teachings, which demanded that she take only meritorious actions.

Thus Soutane’s parents had gifted her. Their war—a mirror of history’s war—lived on inside their child.

In the ten or so minutes since Soutane had sat down, perhaps three dozen people inhabited her narrow view of the environment. This did not include anyone who was in and out within the span of thirty seconds. No one seemed out of place. A couple of young Frenchmen, giving her the eye, had sat down at a table that would afford them the best view of her long legs. Soutane covered her appreciative smile with the rim of her glass.

The last of the flower sellers in the street had packed up and left. A family of six were eating poisson and pâte au pistou at the next table. The lanky waiter came out of the restaurant’s doorway to serve the two young Frenchmen. When he came by Soutane’s table, she ordered another Campari and soda.

The second time the Jesuit priest walked by he caught Soutane’s attention. She had marked him, as she had all the passersby, when she had first seen him. He had come down the Cours Saleya from the direction of the opera house, and the odd thing was that when he reappeared, he came from the same direction. That would mean that, rather than returning from some errand, he had circled around. To make another pass?

This time, however, he lingered, pausing beneath the awning of one of the touristy pizza joints down the street. He did not buy anything, which was his second mistake. He got out an oversized handkerchief, and mopped his brow.

Soutane studiously ignored him. The waiter brought her drink. When, after another few minutes, the Jesuit had not moved, she got up and went inside the restaurant, where it was as dark and cool as night. Fresh fruit was piled atop a curved mahogany bar.

She asked for directions to the lavatory even though she knew perfectly well that it was to the right and to the rear.

Back there, it was like being at the bottom of a well. Both light and sound were distorted. Shadows, grotesquely elongated, swept across the walls as if painted with a surrealist’s brush. The burst of conversation from diners at the inner tables drifted to her overlaid with echoes created in the tiny space.

Soutane went into the cubicle, pulled the door shut behind her. She stood motionless, seemingly doing nothing. But, in fact, she was listening. At length she heard the soft tread of careful footsteps.

It was very quiet in the close, dank cubicle. Soutane could no longer hear his approach, but she could feel his proximity. She willed her body to relax as she watched the door handle slowly turn. She had not locked the door, and now it began to open.

She turned so that her right side was to the door. As she did so, she lifted her skirt over her hips; she was naked underneath.

The door squealed on its old hinges. She saw the Jesuit standing in the shadows of the threshold. His black robes made him seem somehow sinister, like a raven appearing in a field at noon.

“Out, monsieur?” she said.

“Pardon, madame.” But he hesitated. For an instant, as if magnetized, his eyes were drawn to the patch of curling hair between her thighs.

All the time Soutane needed to jam the rigid tips of her fingers into his solar plexus. The priest doubled over, and she slammed the top of his head against the doorframe, hauled him into the cubicle.

But his left hand was already coming up, she saw the glint of a knife blade. She calmly placed the pad of her thumb along the right side of his nose, pressed inward. He groaned, his fingers uncurling so that the knife clattered to the cracked tile floor.

“Who are you?” Soutane said. Again, the pressure at the facial nerve juncture. The Jesuit’s eyes rolled back into his head.

“Why are you following me?”

And again.

“What did you hope to find in my house?”

The Jesuit’s tongue came out. He mouthed silent words, swallowed. Pain filled his eyes like a torrent. “The For-Forest of Swords,” he finally managed to get out.

“What?” Soutane shook him. “What did you say?”

The Jesuit repeated what he had said.

“I don’t believe it,” Soutane said. The Prey Dauw, Forest of Swords, was, as far as she knew, a myth. It was a three-bladed weapon forged, it was said, to immobilize Buddha. In any event it was a symbol of power, a potent talisman kept alive by practitioners of the Muy Puan.

The Muy Puan was an outlaw book of Theravadan scripture. Normally the Theravadans taught that four of the thirty-one planes of existence were hells. The Muy Puan disputed that teaching. It preached, rather, that there were fully one thousand hells and, further, it purported to describe ways in which one could invoke the devils, demons, and false bodhisattvas who were consigned there.

Many younger Khmer, especially in the larger cities, no doubt had never heard of the Muy Puan. But the members of the Burmese mountain tribes in the north, the Shan, the Wa, Lahu, and Akha certainly had. They shared with the Khmer a deep belief in Theravadan Buddhism, of which the Muy Puan was a part. In their dialect it was known as the Ta Taun. Fear of its text ruled their lives. The thought that the Prey Dauw, the major talisman of the Muy Puan, actually existed was appalling.

The person who possessed the Forest of Swords would wield unlimited power in the Shan State. It would mean an end to the perpetual wars between the opium warlords of the Shan Plateau. It would mean the complete domination of the world’s major supply of opium by one person, whereas now there were many who divided up that control. It meant, in effect, that virtually unlimited power, as well as wealth, would be in the hands of a single human being.

“You are lying!” Soutane found that she was shouting. “There is no Forest of Swords! It is a myth perpetuated by the superstitious.”

“I myself have seen part of it,” the priest said. “I fell upon my knees when I saw it. I could feel the ripples of its power in the room, a cold fire that does not burn. There can be no doubt. It is the knife out of legend, the smallest of the three pieces.” He grimaced with the pain that would not end.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Why not? You must know that it was Terry Haye himself who had the dagger, the middle piece, the Doorway to Night,” the priest said. “Now you have it.”

“Oh, what a foul liar you are.” Soutane did something to the priest that made the pupils of his eyes roll behind his lids. He almost collapsed on her.

“Now,” she said, shaking him violently, “tell me the truth.”

The priest’s eyes focused slowly on her. Pain like a hammer upon an anvil hit him all over again. “Ter-Terry Haye had agreed to sell La Porte à la Nuit. Only what he tried to sell was a fake. I have been sent to complete the transaction. To take possession of the real Doorway to Night.”

Impossible, Soutane thought. Could this priest be telling the truth? Terry—her Terry—actually had La Porte à la Nuit? If so, why hadn’t he told her? Surely he must have known what it would mean to her, a Khmer. She wouldn’t have allowed him to sell it. She would have insisted it be returned to Cambodia, where it had been forged.

Of course, if he had had a replica made, he hadn’t intended to sell the real dagger, either. Then what had he intended to do with it? With the whole Forest of Swords in his possession, he could rule the entire Shan. The superstitious warlords who believed in the power of the Muy Puan and of Ravana, the great demon, would move heaven and earth to obey the possessor of the Forest of Swords. Failure to do so would surely mean that they would spend eternity with the demon, outside the wheel of life, deprived forever of rebirth. They did not fear death, but this: the destruction of their individual karma was too terrible to contemplate.

Again she asked herself, What had Terry been up to? What secrets had he kept from her?

Suddenly Soutane felt as if she had not known the man she had been living with for five years.

Her eyes refocused on the Jesuit. “I still think you’re lying. But suppose you aren’t.” She was watching his eyes. “You said that Terry was going to sell La Porte à la Nuit. To whom?”

The Jesuit shook his head. “I cannot tell you any more,” he whispered. “I will be killed.”

Soutane applied more pressure, until his eyes watered, and she could hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “Then you will die here. Is that what you want?”

“He—he’ll kill me.” Tears mingled with the sweat rolling down the Jesuit’s cheeks.

“Who?”

“Dante.” It was almost a sigh. “A Vietnamese named Dante.”

M. Mabuse had been meditating upon the Great Buddha when he saw his quarry draw up in front of the building. M. Mabuse was a block and a half behind. Mechanically, he slowed, but he was still lost within the scene of the Great Buddha.

It was a scene that M. Mabuse not only thought of often, but one which he relived constantly. The Great Buddha, reclining on his right side, his head propped up with the palm of his right hand, had been carved from wood many centuries ago. The scholars sent abroad during the days in which France had stooped to kiss Asia with the condescension and cruelty of colonialism had claimed to have accurately dated it. M. Mabuse had not believed them. Why should he have trusted people whose arrogance caused them to create their own name for his country, Cochinchina?

In any event the Great Buddha lay in a temple upon its gilt-covered base, an eternal symbol of the divine presence in Vietnam. Or so M. Mabuse had believed.

That had been before the war. Before the French, and then the Americans, had brought in their guns and their men and their helicopters and their death rain.

None of them had understood the essential truth—that Vietnam was eternal, that it would resist forever incursions by foreign forces seeking to wrest control from its rightful rulers, by greedy politicians who sought to empty its soul of divinity, by even the frightful death rain that indiscriminately burned humans, dwellings, and forestation alike. For centuries on end the Vietnamese had honed their skills at warfare; who better than they knew the taste of death? Vietnam, like a rabid dog or a soldier too long at the front, could be comfortable only with war.

For M. Mabuse, traveling now through night-shrouded New York, half a world away, that Vietnam was alive, like a coal burning in the center of his being, a flame of suffering, a fire of darkness and death. His sole reason for living—to free himself from the cruel nails that bound him like Christ to his bloody cross.

The Great Buddha. From within his somnolent, peaceful eyes the universe could be discerned. And not only the current universe of man, but the multitudinous planes of existence from which the spirit had come and to which it might one day go, as well as those planes where dwelt gods, saints, demons, and devils.

But at some point, M. Mabuse believed, something must have happened to the Great Buddha; its eyes had turned dim and blind. For the scene that M. Mabuse relived over and over was of himself standing before the Great Buddha.

Weary from constant fighting, he had journeyed more than a hundred miles to return to this holy place in order to cleanse his spirit of the hate and the killing fever that had gripped him for so long.

He could no longer see the multitudinous planes of existence or even the universe in those scabrous eyes. For the vast space before the Great Buddha was heaped with mounds of skulls. Who had killed these people? The Americans? The Chinese? The soft peoples of the south who also called themselves Vietnamese? He did not know. And who were these victims? North Vietnamese? Chinese? South Vietnamese? Americans? It was impossible to say. And in any case, he realized, it did not matter. What mattered was death, and now death was everywhere.

M. Mabuse, his eyes filled with death, pulled into a nearby bus stop and parked.

M. Mabuse had traveled extensively throughout Indochina, gathering as he made his slow, methodical way the essential arts of each region. To M. Mabuse’s way of thinking, that meant martial arts.

He had, for instance, spent much time in Sumatra, learning pentjak-­silat. This was an arcane and exacting discipline that, according to Sumatran legend, had its origins with a peasant woman who had applied principles she had discovered while watching a tiger and an enormous bird battle to the death.

Pentjak-silat used what it called “anatomical weapons,” such as the knuckles, fingers, edges of hand, feet, and so on, each against a specific part of the adversary’s body. Therefore, its practitioners were always armed, even when they bathed or slept. What set it apart, however, was that it was bound up with the element of spiritualism, as were most ancestral concepts on the Indonesian archipelago.

It was pentjak-silat that M. Mabuse had employed to remove the dead cop from his car and to dispose of him in a dry, rock-strewn ravine some five thousand yards away. He had covered the corpse with stones so completely as to ensure that wild animals would not come nosing around.

Then he had turned off all the police car’s lights, released the brake, and, one foot on the tarmac, had guided it over the embankment, out of sight of the highway traffic. All this had been accomplished in the space of ten minutes. It had taken considerably more time to remove the last traces of blood from his car’s interior.

Now, from across the street, he watched the man he was shadowing go into the apartment building. He wondered now which jurus he would use to incapacitate his quarry before the end came. Would it be the folded index and middle fingers to his eyes? The knuckles to his forehead? The fisted four fingers to his solar plexus?

M. Mabuse considered the pain engendered by each blow, at once watching them separately and collectively, like a juggler with his striped balls. He closed his eyes, savoring what was to come, the consequences of his actions rippling outward.

He was such a small thing, blinking at the edge of the cosmos. But what power he wielded!

Almost time, M. Mabuse thought, breathing in the scent of charred flesh as, thrown into the boiling sky, riding the ’copter, he shouted out his anguish to blot out the screams from the burning world below him.

M. Mabuse, watching again the destruction, felt Vietnamese blood like hail, soaking his black pajamas. Darkness, time, and memory, smooth as stones from a riverbed, forever his companions. But were they friends or enemies? M. Mabuse had endured the hell of man’s creation to find out. Soon, he thought, I will be one step closer to the answer that I can already feel like an eye, cold against my flesh.

And when he emerged from his car, he was lost against the night.

“You can’t go home,” Diana Ming said. “Not now.”

Seve, head against the car seat, eyes closed, was too exhausted to argue. He had spent a long time with Elena Hu, the widow of his slain detective, consoling her. Actually, Diana had been better at it than he had. Elena had hit him, then had clung to him with a kind of infantile desperation, as if he had the power to erase her husband’s death off some cosmic slate.

Diana had had the good sense to make tea, to bring out Oreos from the cupboard, the tiny sounds, the familiar smells in themselves comforting, calming, bringing a sense of reality back into an unreal situation.

It had been Diana who had telephoned Elena’s sister, suggesting that they stay until she arrived with her pale, worried face and her overnight bag. Diana, as well, who had to pull him out of the Hus’ apartment, shove him, stumbling, back into the car. Which is when she had said, “You can’t go home. Not now.”

Because home for him was a dark, lonely place that would be, she knew, haunted by his thoughts: how he could have saved Richard Hu; who killed Dominic Guarda and why—too many terrible questions without the possibility of immediate answers.

Seve was asleep by the time Diana pulled up in front of her apartment in Alphabet City on the Lower East Side. She turned off the ignition, listened to the tick of the engine cooling.

Across the avenue Hawaii 5-0 and Nasty Al’s were packing them in. The drift of a jukebox’s output, the jackhammer explosion of rap music out of a ghettoblaster portable stereo, the snarling of a pair of mongrels pulling apart the contents of a trashcan. A vagrant pushing a steel cart from the A&P piled high with junk kicked the dogs away, then went down on her hands and knees to paw through the wreckage.

Diana let out a deep sigh. She watched the outline of Seve’s profile, and thought, I must be out of my mind to bring him home with me. But tonight she was too exhausted to be strong, to give in to her better instincts, to push her love for him into the shadows. I want him, she thought, no matter what he is.

She woke him gently, but even so he started awake. He looked into her eyes, he knew who she was, where he was; he came with her. Up the steep staircase, past the graffiti-strewn walls.

Inside her apartment Diana threw the dead bolt. Seve went straight for the sofa, collapsed onto it. Diana knelt beside him, struggled him out of his jacket. She took off his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, then she spread a light blanket over him. Before she got up, she leaned over, kissed him on the lips.

She went into the bedroom and got undressed. She liked to sleep in the nude, but because Seve was there, she put on an oversized T-shirt. She lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. But she could feel Seve’s presence like a magnet or an oven, making her body tingle, her muscles tauten.

When she felt the quivering start between her legs, she got up and, in the tiny galley kitchen, brewed herself a pot of jasmine tea. Sipping it, she walked through the living room. She had long ago stopped being embarrassed by her apartment, which looked rather more like the Strand used-book store than it did a home. Books were arrayed not only in rows, but in stacks and ungainly piles. The only decorations were a Japanese kimono and fan which she had hung on the walls facing each other.

Pushing aside some books, she made a place for herself on the windowsill.

Because her eyes kept wandering in Seve’s direction, she made herself think about the two corpses in Connecticut. She saw again under the pitiless arc lights the severed heads, the bloody stumps of their necks, ribbons of maroon-flecked skin hanging. Reminding her of . . . what?

Something.

She watched Seve breathing easily, her mind wandering over and over the same ground. What was it? Something dark and sinister crouching in a hidden corner of her brain.

Her gaze fell upon an oversized volume called Secrets of the Samurai: A Survey of the Martial Arts of Feudal Japan. The dark and sinister thing began to squirm, edging toward the light of consciousness. She plucked the book off the shelf, began leafing through it with greater and greater speed.

She had many such books on Oriental weaponry, a legacy of a former boyfriend named Ken who had been a knifemaker. “The Japanese blade is almost like a living thing,” he had once told her. According to him, the raw steel was softened, then folded and refolded upon itself into ten thousand layers. When it was complete, it was flexible enough to be bent in half without snapping, and its edge was so true that when you looked at it head-on, it disappeared. It could pierce armor or sinew and bone, which made it the ideal warrior’s implement.

Diana suddenly looked up, stared at the spread fan on the wall over the sofa upon which Seve slept. It was painted with a scene of a finch amid plum blossoms. She loved that fan, loved that Ken had thought enough of her to send it to her.

Ken had loved his blades more than anything else in life. When Diana had met him, he had already dedicated ten years to trying to learn the Japanese technique of blade-making. Finally, frustrated, he had packed his bags and flown to Japan to apprentice with the last great Japanese swordmaker, a seventy-five-year-old national living treasure.

Ken’s love had gradually rubbed off on Diana, who had a small but superb collection of handmade knives. Now, as she leafed through the book, sipping her jasmine tea, something he had said swirled upward with an odd kind of urgency. Most people, even collectors, he had told her, thought only of katana, swords, or tanto, knives, when they considered Japanese blades. But the fact was that some of the very best work was saved for specialty weapons.

Diana stared at the Japanese fan, its breadth, its width, its design. All of a sudden she felt the tiny hairs at the base of her neck stir. The dark and sinister thing was in the room with her.

“Jesus.” Thinking of the odd, crenellated pattern on the two dead men’s necks, Diana quickly turned to the section titled “The Art of the War Fan.”

She had it! She knew how Seve’s brother had been killed!

She looked over to where Seve slept, and thought better of waking him. Exhaustion had made his face gray and drawn. He needed sleep more now than her revelation. She closed her eyes, but for her sleep was still far off.

For Seve, lying so close to her, dreams were like parachutes, lighter than air, taking you somewhere you’ve never been before or where you’ve too often been.

He and Dom are together again. The years are like doves, calling from the underbrush, unseen. The two brothers are twenty again, are crazy again, in the midst of the hashish dream of Vietnam’s never-ending war. There is blood in air so ashy it has destroyed the sun. Vietnam must be the only place in the world, Seve thinks, where the sky is yellow.

Seve and Dom on a patrol, dressed in the black pajamas of the Khmer Rouge, crossing over from Vietnam into Cambodia. No one knows where they are, even GHQ is in the dark, believing that they are on a routine search-and-destroy patrol. But, then, they don’t take orders from GHQ or even MACV, for that matter.

This—not the Viet Cong, not the Khmer Rouge—is very much on the minds of the men in the patrol. It is virtually all they talk about behind the CO’s back.

But they have all volunteered; they all want to make this voyage into the unknown, into the infinite. And this snaking, sluggish river they must cross is the dividing line. In Vietnam they can explain virtually any actions they take; this is a lunatic asylum, and anything is condoned if it will help decrease the population of lunatics. But Seve knows that once they cross this river, everything will change. They will be in Cambodia, an officially neutral country, where they have no right to be and where, if the presence of American military forces is detected, they will be summarily executed.

They slide down the muddy bank, clotted with stinking weeds, into the oily, opaque water. It is the color, Seve discovers, that comes over a man’s eyes moments after death. The men wade in, wary, nervous, grim. They were told by natives that at this time of the year the river will be swollen and will reach to their necks, but the water never gets above their waists. This is the start, Seve thinks. How will it end?

All of a sudden Dom, who is just ahead of him, slips. Seve reaches out, grabs his brother’s elbow. But his balance is off, and they both go down on their knees. Their chins are in the water. It is as iridescent as peacock feathers. They gasp and spit out river water.

Seve is about to stagger to his feet when a small eddy clears the muck of the slow-moving river, and he sees beneath the surface. Like an iris or a shutter swiftly closing, the eddy brings the opacity back, and Seve stunned, sickened, dizzy, cannot believe what has been revealed to him.

He does not want to but is nevertheless compelled to reach down into the riverbed. Touch confirms what sight has already told him. His trembling fingers do not encounter silt or rock, but rather the drifting tatters of skin, of flesh, sinew, the odd end of bone where the creatures of the river have picked it clean.

Gagging, he stumbles blindly onward, his outstretched hand encountering the same grisly, horrifying deathscape. He is unable to take his hand away.

This is why the river, swollen with water, is still easily fordable. Its bed has been raised by layers of corpses. How many? Seve thinks as he staggers on. Hundreds? Thousands?

He looks bleakly ahead of him. Do any of the others know what it is upon which they walk? Apparently not, for Seve sees no difference in their tense, nervous faces as, at last, they reach the far shore where they can no longer be saved.

But Seve knows, Seve remembers, in dreams such as this one that has parachuted him somewhere he has never been or where he has too often been.

And from a distance too great to recall, he cries out in a voice filled with terror.

Diana threw her book aside, knelt by Seve’s side. She pressed her palms against his heaving chest, kissed away the sweat from his forehead. She smiled at him when his eyelids flew open, and whispered, “It was a dream, boss. It was only a dream.”

Seve’s intense brown eyes focused on her face. “Diana.”

“Yes,” she said. “Diana. You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

He gave a little sigh, closed his eyes, and was asleep within a minute.

Diana went back to her seat on the windowsill, but she did not pick up the book again. She had wanted to shake Seve awake, to tell him what she had discovered—maybe the break they had been looking for. But he was so tired, had looked so frightened by whatever he had seen in his dream, that she had wanted only to see him sleeping peacefully. Time enough in the morning to tell him everything. She was looking forward to seeing the look on his face when she showed him the gunsen, the war fan illustrated in the book.

It was raining again by the time Chris got back to his apartment. He knew that he should be tired, but he wasn’t. He felt that somehow tonight he had opened a door, and had entered an entirely new world, though he could not for certain say what that world was.

He watched the rain sliding down the windowpanes and thought of Alix. He went across the room, turned on the stereo. Then he made himself a drink. He pushed off his shoes, curled his toes into the pile carpeting. Then, with a sigh, he sat in an oversized chair facing the window. The rain turned the city’s lights into ethereal bursts of color.

“Dreams are like angels,” a female voice sang. He put his glass against his cheek and closed his eyes, remembering a time when dreams were real, a time when the scents of lavender and bicycle oil were inextricably mixed, a summer in France when anything was possible.

Perhaps he slept or dreamed for a time. In any event when he opened his eyes, a different song was playing. He put down his glass, went into the bedroom to get his suitcase. He found his passport, stuck away behind the box containing his cuff links, tuxedo studs, and dress watch. He’d have to send someone from the office to get his visa first thing in the morning.

He began to pack, methodically, mindlessly. It passed the time. In the bathroom he gathered toiletries together, the disposable razors, the mini-can of shave cream, tiny tube of toothpaste, miniature deodorant, shoved them into his kit bag.

He could hear the music playing softly through the apartment, as if it were a song being sung in another time or place. The apartment was dark, save for a lamp lit beside his bed.

Chris slid aside the mirrored door to his closet. As he did so, he glanced into it. His hand stopped. From this angle he had a partial view down the vestibule to the front door.

Piercing the darkness like a knife, he saw a vertical sliver of light from the hallway outside. As he watched, the sliver of light grew slowly wider.

He was transfixed. He knew that he was watching his front door being silently opened, but it seemed unreal, impossible, unthinkable.

Yet it was happening.

It was happening to him. He did not know what to do. He was consumed by the intimation of acute danger.

The front door was now open far enough so that the light from the outer hallway spilled into his apartment. Chris thought he saw the edge of a shadow in that light, then it was gone, leaving a perfectly clear V of light.

He was abruptly aware of the length of his own shadow, thrown by the light of his bedside lamp. It was like a finger pointing directly at him. He stepped into the shadow of his closet, and disappeared.

He stood quite still, listening to the râle of his own breathing. He was aware of how ragged it sounded. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel each double pulse like a shock running through him.

Like many criminal lawyers, he had been threatened more than once, and so had a permit and a handgun. He had never had occasion to use it, but he had taken it to the police firing range several times, where they taught him how to fire it calmly and accurately.

Now, in the darkness of his closet, he fumbled for the drawer that held the gun. He lifted it out, fumbled for the box of bullets, and one by one, loaded them into the chambers. Then he inched out into his bedroom.

He could still see the sliver of light from the hallway, but now it was uneven. He stared at it a moment, trying to make sense of the new shape. With a start he saw that someone was standing in the light.

Silently, he moved out of the bedroom. In the living room, he stopped against a wall and, crouching down in the classic marksman’s stance, aimed the pistol at the shape in the doorway. Then he reached up, and switched on the light.

The shape jumped, and he almost fired, saw her face in time, took his finger off the trigger.

“Alix,” he said, rising.

Alix, startled by the sudden flood of light, had her hands at her throat. “My God, Christopher! You scared the hell out of me!” Then she saw the pistol in his hand, said, “Oh,” in a soft voice.

He was furious, shaking with a mixture of relief and excess adrenaline. “What are you doing? How did you get in here?”

“I wasn’t—” She turned her head, closed the door behind her. “I rang your bell. Then I saw that the door wasn’t locked. In fact, it was open. You must have forgotten to shut it when you came in.”

“Didn’t you see the doorman? He should have buzzed me,” Chris said.

“I didn’t see anyone in the lobby.” Alix looked genuinely contrite. “I came directly up. I’m sorry.”

He put the gun carefully down on the L-shaped sofa. “It’s all right.” He took a deep breath. “Really.” He smiled, seeing her uncertain expression. “It’s okay.”

She walked down the hall toward him. “Hello,” she said.

“I was just thinking of you,” he said, relaxing. He was pleased that she was here. His dark mood was lifting.

She laughed, a soft sound. “I must have heard you.”

They watched one another in the semidarkness.

“Were you asleep?”

“For a while,” Chris said. “But I’ve been up.”

“I’m glad I didn’t wake you.” She smiled her dazzling smile. “Were you dreaming of me?”

“I might have been,” he said, putting his arm around her.

Her head on his shoulder. “That would be nice.”

He led her to the sofa. Her face seemed to glow from out of the room’s dim light, the neon and fluorescents from the cityscape outside the window.

“I didn’t know what to do,” she said, lying in his lap. “I kept thinking of you, and then of you leaving tomorrow.” She looked up into his face. “I’ve never done anything like this.”

“Hush,” he said, brushing strands of hair away from her face.

She put a hand against his cheek. “Dear Christopher,” she whispered. “Am I taking an awful risk coming here?”

He leaned down. Her lips were trembling as he kissed her. “Don’t be afraid,” he said.

There was in the gray of her left eye a mote of indeterminate color. It was both endearing and mysterious, revealing to him a previously unknown vulnerability and depth.

Her eyes fluttering closed, feeling his open lips against hers, feeling his strength above her, Alix clung to him. Will you love me, she wondered, the way I need to be loved?

She felt his fingers at the buttons of her dress. She wore nothing underneath. She melted at the look on his face when his fingers encountered her bare flesh. Then she gasped, arching up against him. He buried his face in the hollow of her throat and, her heart pounding, she curled her hand at the nape of his neck, stroking. She licked his ears.

Then he broke away from her embrace just long enough to slide down the length of her torso. His hands stroked the insides of her thighs, then his mouth found her.

Alix felt as if she had been thrown into a fire, felt as if her bones were melting. She could not catch her breath. She had never felt such overwhelming pleasure.

There was not even time enough to get fully out of her dress. She pulled him up against her and took him in the palm of her hand, not wanting another minute to go by without him inside her.

Kicked her dress up over her thighs, feeling him quivering at her entrance as she guided him. Then his lips and tongue at her breasts, at her burning nipples, and with a rush that thrust her deliriously against him, he filled her up.

She was already so excited that she was immediately on the brink. She squeezed his muscles, smelled his sweet sweat, felt the pleasure swamping her, and thought that she would faint.

His lips covered hers again. She had never been with a man who kept kissing her all the way through sex. She was aware of his tongue and his penis probing together, and she was thrust into the center of the fire, her body a deep pool of pleasure.

Taken by surprise, shaking and groaning, she jammed her hips in against him until she felt him explode inside her, making her inner muscles spasm, making her come a second time.

Alix awoke sometime later, wondering where she was and whether it had been a dream. Then she saw the shadows on the ceiling, felt the warmth like a special treasure wrapped inside her. She turned over, saw a shadow draped against the couch.

“Christopher?”

His eyes were closed and, putting her hand on him, she could feel tension returning to his frame.

“What is it? What are you thinking about?” Her voice was so soft, so gentle.

Chris turned toward her. “I want to tell you something I’ve never told anyone,” he said. “I was thinking just now about what happened between my brother and me.”

Alix was silent, watching him, moving a little so that his profile was limned by the wash of the city’s predawn glow through the windows.

“When we were kids, my father used to bring us into his office on Christmas morning so he could see us open our presents. My family always had a lot of money—my father’s money, principally—but he was, if not tight, then certainly abstemious with it. ‘We had the dirt of Wales when I was young,’ he used to tell us. ‘That was all, and that was sufficient.’ ”

Alix could see Christopher smiling a little, and this gladdened her heart.

“Sufficient,” he said, “was always one of my father’s favorite words.” He shifted on the sofa. “Anyway, the one day he forgot about ‘sufficient’ was Christmas. My father was lavish with his gifts, though more often than not, he presented us with presents he wanted us to have rather than ones we ourselves wanted.

“That was never more apparent than on the Christmas when I was twelve. Terry was a year older, thirteen. My father gave us thirty-thirty hunting rifles, set up some cans for us to practice on, then took us out to find deer.

“Jesus, it was right up Terry’s alley. I remember him that year staring at the old hunting rifle Dad brought over from Wales when grandfather died. ‘That’s what’s left of him,’ he used to say to me. ‘If there’s anything like a spirit, that’s his. When I look at that rifle, I see him tall, proud, making his living from the soil of Wales. There’s dignity in that, even, yes, a kind of greatness.’

“Terry understood, I guess, what Dad meant; I didn’t. I never liked that gun, but Terry couldn’t take his eyes off it. Then, that Christmas, when Dad gave us the rifles, Terry was in his element. On the other hand, I didn’t know what to make of it. It seemed evil somehow, in my hands, as if it were already full of suffering.

“I didn’t want to go—I didn’t want to find any deer, because I knew what would happen then. As usual, my father bullied me, shaming me into going. And as usual Terry had no clue as to why I was balking. He was happy, why wasn’t I? With Terry it was always the same: Dad likes this, so do I. If you don’t, what’s wrong with you?

“It hadn’t snowed for some time, but it had been very cold. The ground was icy, the needles on the pines as stiff as steel. I remember feeling tired, crawling into a copse of trees to rest. And, looking through the pines, to a clearing on the other side, I saw the deer, a huge, lone buck. He was foraging and, oddly, I recall testing the wind, for Dad had told us to keep downwind of the animals so they couldn’t scent us.

“Why did I do that? I don’t know. Just as surely as I don’t know why I pulled at Terry’s shirttail. I know that if I hadn’t, he’d have gone right past the deer without ever having noticed him.

“Of course, Terry’s first reaction was to tell me to shoot the deer. I can’t imagine why that angered and surprised me so. He kept at me. Then, when I refused, he aimed his own rifle. I smashed it against the bole of the tree.

“ ‘Jesus, Dad’ll kill you,’ he said, or something like that. And then he did the most extraordinary, the most unforgivable thing. He lunged for my rifle, swung it up until he was pointed at the deer, then he pressed inward against my finger, which was unconsciously curled around the trigger.

“The rifle went off, and the buck went down. I saw its huge eyes rolling, the look in them of bewilderment and pain. He was dying, and he did not understand why. He was no different, I thought, than a human being.

“And then, as Dad came up, I started to cry. I have never felt such despair, such desolation. My God, I thought, staring at the buck, what have you made me do? It was as if I had pulled the trigger, I had killed that life. I felt as if my soul had shriveled and turned to ashes. And it was his doing. Or, by my tugging at his shirttail, was it mine as well?”

All at once he was crying and shaking. Alix wanted to hold him, to stop his trembling with the weight of her body, the force of her will, but she hesitated, not knowing how he would react. When he had pulled himself together, he said, “I could never find it inside myself to forgive Terry. And now, of course, it’s too late.”

Without looking at Alix, he lay back down on the other part of the sofa. In time he slipped into an exhausted slumber.

Only after she was certain that he was soundly asleep did she reach out to touch him briefly, lovingly. He had seemed almost to be vibrating with tension while he was telling the story. How sad he looks, she thought, even now.

Light had descended upon his face and, looking at him, she could imagine herself to be Wendy in Peter Pan. He’s one of the Lost Boys, she thought, a motherless child, a long way from his home.

She wondered briefly what it would be like to hate her sister so completely that forgiveness was impossible. She shuddered, finding the thought unbearable. Poor Christopher. Poor Terry, for that matter.

She stared out the window, into the rain. It was the time when the sky was too pale to be night, too dark to be dawn. Alix remembered a time when she and Dick had gone to Barbados. They had rented scuba equipment, and had descended into the land where it was always night.

In a blue-green shoal the light had been like this, opalescent, translucent, the illumination of a liquid. It had been so quiet that the beating of her heart was the center of her world. She could see Dick floating beside her, the image of herself reflected in his mask. She had felt like a goddess, invulnerable and immortal. She fell back asleep feeling that way again.

And was awakened by the rain rattling against the windowpane. She stared dumbly at it, still half asleep.

A movement from within the apartment caught by her peripheral vision tugged at her. At first she thought that Christopher had awakened. But then she saw him still stretched out on the sofa, face turned into the pillows.

She started, disbelieving. A shadowy shape creeping across the floor. Who? What was it doing? These questions flashed through Alix’s mind even as she leaped off the couch.

She had been coiled up, sleeping like a cat. Now, as she sprang, her lithe body stretched, and she landed atop the shadow, digging her knees and elbows into flesh as hard as steel.

Wrapped her left arm around the throat, jerked backward, bending at her waist, using the weight of her upper torso to apply leverage.

But, instead of resistance, she found herself tumbling over backward as her opponent turned her own momentum against her. She hit the floor with an insupportable weight on her abdomen.

Her eyes opened wide as she saw the hideous face of a demon or an animal—not a human face, surely!—on top of her, against her, inside of her.

One arm pinioned behind her back, the breath escaping from her faster than she could draw it in—even breathing took too much effort, too much time, she had none. Made a split-second decision, born of desperation and hope, butting her forehead hard against the terrible face hanging in her vision like a lantern or a moon.

Pain shot through her so thoroughly that she expelled a hard rasp through hard-clenched teeth, the last gasp of an engine before it comes to rest.

But the terrible weight was lifted from her chest, and she sucked in air. She looked up. Rain passing through a prism, turning colors, dripping onto a mirror, no, not a mirror, but shining like metal, crenellated and—

It’s a fan, Alix thought, passing from light to shadow and back again. Her only thought now was to warn Christopher. She opened her mouth, but a hand, callused to the texture of hardwood, clamped down with such force that she began to gag.

Fingers like steel rods jammed between her lips, filling her mouth, pushing her tongue down her throat. Alix, terrified, felt the vomit rising, the involuntary spasms racking her.

Used the heel of her free hand as she had been taught, slamming it against the unprotected ear of her foe. Felt the pressure come off her pinioned right arm, brought it up, ignoring the pain, the seminumbness, began an elementary karate chop, felt with bone-jarring impact the mis-hit.

But it gave her time, now, to roll out from under, escape the attempt to strangle her on her own tongue. Still, her only thought was for Christopher, and she cried out, one short, shrill shout of alarm.

Then the cutting edge of the gunsen caught her under the chin, slicing the side of her neck.

Chris awoke to a spray of blood. He shook his head groggily. Then he was fully awake, saw the strange, hunched shadow looming over Alix, in its hand . . . what? . . . a fan?

Lunging for the pistol. Firing point-blank at the rolling, springing shadow that went from its crouch beside Alix, to the hallway, to the doorsill, and was gone.

Chris ran down the hall to the open door, but there was nothing to see. Up or down, he wondered, which way? Then he realized that it didn’t matter. With an agonizing wrench he turned back into the apartment.

“Alix.”

He knelt beside her. His insides twisted, his heart constricted. There was so much blood. Still, her gray eyes recognized him. Her lips opened, her eyelids fluttered. What was she trying to say?

“Alix.” He whispered her name and, in the same instant, pulled the phone toward him, dialed 911.

Chris watching as Alix’s life slipped away; he could scarcely breathe. Pain that he could not define emptied him of all coherent thought. He was aware that he was weeping. “Hold on,” he whispered into her quiet face. “Don’t die, please don’t die.” It was as if there were a stake plunged into his chest.

Her blood was all over him, her life coating him, drying like a second skin.