Lie down with lions

CHAPTER 1

THE MEN who wanted to kill Ahmet Yilmaz were serious people. They were exiled Turkish students living in Paris, and they had already murdered an attaché at the Turkish Embassy and firebombed the home of a senior executive of Turkish Airlines. They chose Yilmaz as their next target because he was a wealthy supporter of the military dictatorship and because he lived, conveniently, in Paris.

His home and office were well guarded and his Mercedes limousine was armored, but every man has a weakness, the students believed, and that weakness is usually sex. In the case of Yilmaz they were right. A couple of weeks of casual surveillance revealed that Yilmaz would leave his house, on two or three evenings each week, driving the Renault station wagon his servants used for shopping, and go to a side street in the Fifteenth District to visit a beautiful young Turkish woman who was in love with him.

The students decided to put a bomb in the Renault while Yilmaz was getting laid.

They knew where to get the explosives: from Pepe Gozzi, one of the many sons of the Corsican godfather Mémé Gozzi. Pepe was a weapons dealer. He would sell to anyone, but he preferred political customers, for—as he cheerfully admitted—"Idealists pay higher prices." He had helped the Turkish students with both their previous outrages.

There was a snag in the car-bomb plan. Usually Yilmaz would leave the girl's place alone in the Renault—but not always. Sometimes he took her out to dinner. Often she went off in the car and returned half an hour later laden with bread, fruit, cheese and wine, evidently for a cozy feast. Occasionally Yilmaz would go home in a taxi, and the girl would borrow the car for a day or two. The students were romantic, like all terrorists, and they were reluctant to risk killing a beautiful woman whose only crime was the readily pardonable one of loving a man unworthy of her.

They discussed this problem in a democratic fashion. They made all decisions by vote and acknowledged no leaders; but all the same there was one among them whose strength of personality made him dominant. His name was Rahmi Coskun, and he was a handsome, passionate young man with a bushy moustache and a certain bound-for-glory light in his eyes. It was his energy and determination which had pushed through the previous two projects despite the problems and the risks. Rahmi proposed consulting a bomb expert.

At first the others did not like mis idea. Whom could they trust? they asked. Rahmi suggested Ellis Thaler. An American who called himself a poet but in fact made a living giving English lessons, he had learned about explosives as a conscript in Vietnam. Rahmi had known him for a year or so: they had both worked on a short-lived revolutionary newspaper called Chaos, and together they had organized a poetry reading to raise funds for the Palestine Liberation Organization. He seemed to understand Rahmi's rage at what was being done to Turkey and his hatred of the barbarians who were doing it. Some of the other students also knew Ellis slightly: he had been seen at several demonstrations, and they had assumed he was a graduate student or a young professor. Still, they were reluctant to bring in a non-Turk; but Rahmi was insistent and in the end they consented.

Ellis came up with the solution to their problem immediately. The bomb should have a radio-controlled arming device, he said. Rahmi would sit at a window opposite the girl's apartment, or in a parked car along the street, watching the Renault. In his hand he would have a small radio transmitter the size of a pack of cigarettes—the kind of thing one used to open automatic garage doors. If Yilmaz got into the car alone, as he most often did, then Rahmi would press the button on the transmitter, and a radio signal would activate a switch in the bomb, which would then be armed and would explode as soon as Yilmaz started the engine. But if it should be the girl who got into the car, Rahmi would not press the button, and she could drive away in blissful ignorance. The bomb would be quite safe until it was armed. "No button, no bang," said Ellis.

Rahmi liked the idea and asked Ellis if he would collaborate with Pepe Gozzi on making the bomb.

Sure, said Ellis.

Then there was one more snag.

I've got a friend, Rahmi said, who wants to meet you both, Ellis and Pepe. To tell the truth, he must meet you, otherwise the whole deal is off; for this is the friend who gives us the money for explosives and cars and bribes and guns and everything.

Why does he want to meet us? Ellis and Pepe wanted to know.

He needs to be sure that the bomb will work, and he wants to feel that he can trust you, Rahmi said apologetically. All you have to do is bring the bomb to him and explain to him how it will work and shake his hand and let him look you in the eye, is that so much to ask, for the man who is making the whole thing possible?

It's all right with me, said Ellis.

Pepe hesitated. He wanted the money he would make on the deal—he always wanted money, as a pig always wants the trough—but he hated to meet new people.

Ellis reasoned with him. Listen, he said, these student groups bloom and die like mimosa in the spring, and Rahmi is sure to be blown away before long; but if you know his "friend" then you will be able to continue to do business after Rahmi is gone.

You're right, said Pepe, who was no genius but could grasp business principles if they were explained simply.

Ellis told Rahmi that Pepe had agreed, and Rahmi set up a rendezvous for the three of them on the following Sunday.

That morning Ellis woke up in Jane's bed. He came awake suddenly, feeling frightened, as if he had had a nightmare. A moment later he remembered the reason why he was so tense.

He glanced at the clock. He was early. In his mind he ran over his plan. If all went well, today would be the triumphant conclusion to more than a year of patient, careful work. And he would be able to share that triumph with Jane, if he was still alive at the end of the day.

He turned his head to look at her, moving carefully to avoid waking her. His heart leaped, as it did every time he saw her face. She lay flat on her back, with her turned-up nose pointing at the ceiling and her dark hair spread across the pillow like a bird's unfolded wing. He looked at her wide mouth, the full lips that kissed him so often and so lusciously. Spring sunlight revealed the dense blond down on her cheeks—her beard, he called it, when he wanted to tease her.

It was a rare delight to see her like this, in repose, her face relaxed and expressionless. Normally she was animated—laughing, frowning, grimacing, registering surprise or skepticism or compassion. Her commonest expression was a wicked grin, like that of a mischievous small boy who has just perpetrated a particularly fiendish practical joke. Only when she was sleeping or thinking very hard was she like this; yet this was how he loved her most, for now, when she was unguarded and unselfconscious, her appearance hinted at the languid sensuality that burned just beneath her surface like a slow, hot underground fire. When he saw her like this his hands almost itched to touch her.

This had surprised him. When he had first met her, soon after he came to Paris, she had struck him as typical of the kind of busybody always found among the young and the radical in capital cities, chairing committees and organizing campaigns against apartheid and for nuclear disarmament, leading protest marches about El Salvador and water pollution, raising money for starving people in Chad, or trying to promote a talented young filmmaker. People were drawn to her by her striking good looks, captivated by her charm, and energized by her enthusiasm. He had dated her a couple of times, just for the pleasure of watching a pretty girl demolish a steak; and then—he could never remember exactly how it happened—he had discovered that inside this excitable girl there lived a passionate woman, and he had fallen in love.

His gaze wandered around her little studio flat. He noted with pleasure the familiar personal possessions that marked the place as hers: a pretty lamp made of a small Chinese vase; a shelf of books on economics and world poverty; a big soft sofa you could drown in; a photograph of her father, a handsome man in a double-breasted coat, probably taken in the early sixties; a small silver cup won by her on her pony Dandelion and dated 1971, ten years ago. She was thirteen, Ellis thought, and I was twenty-three; and while she was winning pony trials in Hampshire I was in Laos, laying anti-personnel mines along the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

When he had first seen the flat, almost a year ago, she had just moved here from the suburbs, and it had been rather bare: a little attic room with a kitchen in an alcove, a shower in a closet, and a toilet down the hall. Gradually she had transformed it from a grimy garret into a cheerful nest. She earned a good salary as an interpreter, translating French and Russian into English, but her rent was high— the apartment was near the Boulevard St.-Michel—so she had bought carefully, saving her money for just the right mahogany table, antique bedstead and Tabriz rug. She was what Ellis's father would call a classy dame. You're going to like her, Dad, thought Ellis. You're going to be just crazy about her.

He rolled onto his side, facing her, and the movement woke her, as he had known it would. Her large blue eyes stared at the ceiling for a fraction of a second, then she looked at him, smiled, and rolled over into his arms. "Hello," she whispered, and he kissed her.

He got hard immediately. They lay together for a while, half asleep, kissing now and again; then she draped one leg across his hips and they began to make love languorously, without speaking.

When they had first become lovers, and they had started to make love morning and night and often midafternoon too, Ellis had assumed that such horniness would not last, and that after a few days, or maybe a couple of weeks, the novelty would wear off and they would revert to the statistical average of two-and-a-half times a week, or whatever it was. He had been wrong. A year later they were still screwing like honeymooners.

She rolled on top of him, letting her full weight rest on his body. Her damp skin clung to his. He wrapped his arms around her small body and hugged her as he thrust deep inside her. She sensed that his climax was coming, and she lifted her head and looked down at him, then kissed him with her mouth open while he was coming inside her. Immediately afterward she gave a soft, low-pitched moan, and he felt her come with a long, gentle, wavy, Sunday morning orgasm. She stayed on top of him, half asleep still. He stroked her hair.

After a while she stirred. "Do you know what day it is?" she mumbled.

"Sunday."

"It's your Sunday to make lunch."

"I hadn't forgotten."

"Good." There was a pause. "What are you going to give me?"

"Steak, potatoes, snow peas, goat's cheese, strawberries and Chantilly cream."

She lifted her head, laughing. "That's what you always make!"

"It is not. Last time we had French beans."

"And the time before that you had forgotten, so we ate out. How about some variety in your cooking?"

"Hey, wait a minute. The deal was, each of us would make lunch on alternate Sundays. Nobody said anything about making a different lunch each time."

She slumped on him again, feigning defeat.

His day's work had been at the back of his mind all along. He was going to need her unconscious help, and this was the moment to ask her. "I have to see Rahmi this morning," he began.

"All right. I'll meet you at your place later."

"There's something you could do for me, if you wouldn't mind getting there a little early."

"What?"

"Cook the lunch. No! No! Just kidding. I want you to help me with a little conspiracy."

"Go on," she said.

"Today is Rahmi's birthday, and his brother Mustafa is in town, but Rahmi doesn't know." If this works out, Ellis thought, I'll never lie to you again. "I want Mustafa to turn up at Rahmi's lunch party as a surprise. But I need an accomplice."

"I'm game," she said. She rolled off him and sat upright, crossing her legs. Her breasts were like apples, smooth and round and hard. The ends of her hair teased her nipples. "What do I have to do?"

"The problem is simple. I have to tell Mustafa where to go, but Rahmi hasn't yet made up his mind where he wants to eat. So I have to get the message to Mustafa at the last minute. And Rahmi will probably be beside me when I make the call."

"And the solution?"

"I'll call you. I'll talk nonsense. Ignore everything except the address. Call Mustafa, give him the address and tell him how to get there." All this had sounded okay when Ellis dreamed it up, but now it seemed wildly implausible.

However, Jane did not seem suspicious. "It sounds simple enough," she said.

"Good," Ellis said briskly, concealing his relief.

"And after you call, how soon will you be home?"

"Less than an hour. I want to wait and see the surprise, but I'll get out of having lunch there."

Jane looked thoughtful. "They invited you but not me."

Ellis shrugged. "I presume it's a masculine celebration." He reached for the notepad on the bedside table and wrote Mustafa and the phone number.

Jane got off the bed and crossed the room to the shower closet. She opened the door and turned on the tap. Her mood had changed. She was not smiling. Ellis said: "What are you mad about?"

"I'm not mad," she said. "Sometimes I dislike the way your friends treat me."

"But you know how the Turks are about girls."

"Exactly—girls. They don't mind respectable women, but I'm a girl."

Ellis sighed. "It's not like you to get needled by the prehistoric attitudes of a few chauvinists. What are you really trying to tell me?"

She considered for a moment, standing naked beside the shower, and she was so lovely that Ellis wanted to make love again. She said: "I suppose I'm saying that I don't like my status. I'm committed to you, everyone knows that—I don't sleep with anyone else, don't even go out with other men—but you're not committed to me. We don't live together, I don't know where you go or what you do a lot of the time, we've never met one another's parents . . . and people know all this, so they treat me like a tart."

"I think you're exaggerating."

"You always say that." She stepped into the shower and banged the door. Ellis took his razor from the drawer where he kept his overnight kit and began to shave at the kitchen sink. They had had this argument before, at much greater length, and he knew what was at the bottom of it: Jane wanted them to live together.

He wanted it too, of course; he wanted to marry her and live with her for the rest of his life. But he had to wait

until this assignment was over; and he could not tell her that, so he said such things as I'm not ready and All I need is time, and these vague evasions infuriated her. It seemed to her that a year was a long time to love a man without getting any kind of commitment from him. She was right, of course. But if all went well today he could make everything right.

He finished shaving, wrapped his razor in a towel and put it in his drawer. Jane got out of the shower and he took her place. We're not talking, he thought; this is silly.

While he was in the shower she made coffee. He dressed quickly in faded denim jeans and a black T-shirt and sat opposite her at the little mahogany table. She poured his coffee and said: "I want to have a serious talk with you."

"Okay," he said quickly, "let's do it at lunchtime."

"Why not now?"

"I don't have time."

"Is Rahmi's birthday more important than our relationship?"

"Of course not." Ellis heard irritation in his tone, and a warning voice told him Be gentle, you could lose her. "But I promised, and it's important that I keep my promises; whereas it doesn't seem very important whether we have this conversation now or later.''

Jane's face took on a set, stubborn look that he knew: she wore it when she had made a decision and someone tried to deflect her from her path. "It's important to me that we talk now.''

For a moment he was tempted to tell her the whole truth right away. But this was not the way he had planned it. He was short of time, his mind was on something else, and he was not prepared. It would be much better later, when they were both relaxed, and he would be able to tell her that his job in Paris was done. So he said: "I think you're being silly, and I won't be bullied. Please let's talk later. I have to go now." He stood up.

As he walked to the door she said: "Jean-Pierre has asked me to go to Afghanistan with him."

This was so completely unexpected that Ellis had to

think for a moment before he could take it in. "Are you serious?" he said incredulously.

"I'm serious."

Ellis knew Jean-Pierre was in love with Jane. So were half a dozen other men: that kind of thing was inevitable with such a woman. None of the men were serious rivals, though; at least, he had thought not, until this moment. He began to recover his composure. He said: "Why would you want to visit a war zone with a wimp?"

"It's not a joking matter!" she said fiercely. "I'm talking about my life.''

He shook his head in disbelief. "You can't go to Afghanistan."

"Why not?"

"Because you love me."

"That doesn't put me at your disposal."

At least she had not said No I don't. He looked at his watch. This was ridiculous: in a few hours' time he was going to tell her everything she wanted to hear. "I'm not willing to do this," he said. "We're talking about our future, and it's a discussion that can't be rushed."

"I won't wait forever," she said.

"I'm not asking you to wait forever, I'm asking you to wait a few hours." He touched her cheek. "Let's not fight about a few hours."

She stood up and kissed his mouth hard.

He said: "You won't go to Afghanistan, will you?"

"I don't know," she said levelly.

He tried a grin. "At least, not before lunch."

She smiled back and nodded. "Not before lunch."

He looked at her for a moment longer, then he went out.

The broad boulevards of the Champs-Elysees were thronged with tourists and Parisians out for a morning stroll, milling about like sheep in a fold under the warm spring sun, and all the pavement cafés were full. Ellis stood near the appointed place, carrying a backpack he had bought in a cheap luggage store. He looked like an American on a hitchhiking tour of Europe.

He wished Jane had not chosen this morning for a confrontation: she would be brooding now, and would be in a jagged mood by the time he arrived.

Well, he would just have to smooth her ruffled feathers for a while.

He put Jane out of his mind and concentrated on the task ahead of him.

There were two possibilities as to the identity of Rahmi's "friend," the one who financed the little terrorist group. The first was that he was a wealthy freedom-loving Turk who had decided, for political or personal reasons, that violence was justified against the military dictatorship and its supporters. If this was the case then Ellis would be disappointed.

The second possibility was that he was Boris.

"Boris" was a legendary figure in the circles within which Ellis moved—among the revolutionary students, the exiled Palestinians, the part-time politics lecturers, the editors of badly printed extremist newspapers, the anarchists and the Maoists and the Armenians and the militant vegetarians. He was said to be a Russian, a KGB man willing to fund any leftist act of violence in the West. Many people doubted his existence, especially those who had tried and failed to get funds out of the Russians. But Ellis had noticed, from time to time, that a group who for months had done nothing but complain that they could not afford a duplicating machine would suddenly stop talking about money and become very security-conscious; and then, a little later, there would be a kidnapping or a shooting or a bomb.

It was certain, Ellis thought, that the Russians gave money to such groups as the Turkish dissidents: they could hardly resist such a cheap and low-risk way of causing trouble. Besides, the U.S. financed kidnappers and murderers in Central America, and he could not imagine that the Soviet Union would be more scrupulous than his own country. And since in this line of work money was not kept in bank accounts or moved around by Telex, somebody had to hand over the actual banknotes; so it followed that there had to be a Boris figure.

Ellis wanted very badly to meet him.

Rahmi walked by at exactly ten-thirty, wearing a pink Lacoste shirt and immaculately pressed tan pants, looking edgy. He threw one burning glance at Ellis, then turned his head away.

Ellis followed him, staying ten or fifteen yards behind, as they had previously arranged.

At the next pavement café sat the muscular, overweight form of Pepe Gozzi, in a black silk suit as if he had been to Mass, which he probably had. He held a large briefcase in his lap. He got up and fell in more or less alongside Ellis, in such a way that a casual observer would have been unsure whether they were together or not.

Rahmi headed up the hill toward the Arc de Triomphe.

Ellis watched Pepe out of the corner of his eye. The Corsican had an animal's instinct for self-preservation: unobtrusively, he checked whether he was being followed— once when he crossed the road, and could quite naturally glance back along the boulevard while he stood waiting for the light to change, and again passing a corner shop where he could see the people behind him reflected in the diagonal window.

Ellis liked Rahmi but not Pepe. Rahmi was sincere and high-principled, and the people he killed probably deserved to die. Pepe was completely different. He did this for money, and because he was too coarse and stupid to survive in the world of legitimate business.

Three blocks east of the Arc de Triomphe, Rahmi turned into a side street. Ellis and Pepe followed. Rahmi led them across the road and entered the Hotel Lancaster.

So this was the rendezvous. Ellis hoped the meeting was to take place in a bar or restaurant in the hotel: he would feel safer in a public room.

The marbled entrance hall was cool after the heat of the street. Ellis shivered. A waiter in a tuxedo looked askance at his jeans. Rahmi was getting into a tiny elevator at the far end of the L-shaped lobby. It was to be a hotel room, then. So be it. Ellis followed Rahmi into the elevator and Pepe squeezed in behind. Ellis's nerves were drawn wire-tight as they went up. They got off at the fourth floor and Rahmi led them to Room 41 and knocked.

Ellis tried to make his face calm and impassive.

The door opened slowly.

It was Boris. Ellis knew it as soon as he set eyes on the man, and he felt a thrill of triumph and at the same time a cold shiver of fear. Moscow was written all over the man, from his cheap haircut to his solidly practical shoes, and there was the unmistakable style of the KGB in his hard-eyed look of appraisal and the brutal set of his mouth. This man was not like Rahmi or Pepe; he was neither a hotheaded idealist nor a swinish mafioso. Boris was a stone-hearted professional terrorist who would not hesitate to blow the head off any or all of the three men who now stood before him.

I've been looking for you for a long time, thought Ellis.

Boris held the door half open for a moment, partly shielding his body while he studied them, then he stepped back and said in French: "Come in."

They walked into the sitting room of a suite. It was rather exquisitely decorated, and furnished with chairs, occasional tables and a cupboard which appeared to be eighteenth-century antiques. A carton of Marlboro cigarettes and a duty-free liter of brandy stood on a delicate bow-legged side table. In the far corner a half-open door led to a bedroom.

Rahmi's introductions were nervously perfunctory: "Pepe. Ellis. My friend."

Boris was a broad-shouldered man wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to show meaty, hair-covered forearms. His blue serge trousers were too heavy for this weather. Over the back of a chair was slung a black-and-tan checked jacket which would look wrong with the blue trousers.

Ellis put his backpack on the rug and sat down.

Boris gestured at the brandy bottle. "A drink?"

Ellis did not want brandy at eleven o'clock in the morning. He said: "Yes, please—coffee."

Boris gave him a hard, hostile look, then said: "We'll all have coffee," and went to the phone. He's used to everyone being afraid of him, Ellis thought; he doesn't like it that I treat him as an equal.

Rahmi was plainly in awe of Boris, and fidgeted anxiously, fastening and unfastening the top button of his pink polo shirt while the Russian called room service.

Boris hung up the phone and addressed Pepe. "I'm glad-to meet you," he said in French. "I think we can help each other."

Pepe nodded without speaking. He sat forward in the velvet chair, his powerful bulk in the black suit looking oddly vulnerable against the pretty furniture, as if it might break him. Pepe has a lot in common with Boris, thought Ellis: they're both strong, cruel men without decency or compassion. If Pepe were Russian, he would be in the KGB; and if Boris were French he'd be in the Mafia.

"Show me the bomb," said Boris.

Pepe opened his briefcase. It was packed with blocks, about a foot long and a couple of inches square, of a yellowish substance. Boris knelt on the rug beside the case and poked one of the blocks with a forefinger. The substance yielded like putty. Boris sniffed it. "I presume this is C3," he said to Pepe.

Pepe nodded.

"Where is the mechanism?"

Rahmi said: "Ellis has it in his backpack."

Ellis said: "No, I don't."

The room went very quiet for a moment. A look of panic came over Rahmi's handsome young face. "What do you mean?" he said agitatedly. His frightened eyes switched from Ellis to Boris and back again. "You said ... I told him you would—"

"Shut up," Boris said harshly. Rahmi fell silent. Boris looked expectantly at Ellis.

Ellis spoke With a casual indifference that he did not feel. "I was afraid this might be a trap, so I left the

mechanism at home. It can be here in a few minutes. I just have to call my girl."

Boris stared at him for several seconds. Ellis returned his look as coolly as he could. Finally Boris said: "Why did you think this might be a trap?"

Ellis decided that to try to justify himself would appear defensive. It was a dumb question, anyway. He shot an arrogant look at Boris, then shrugged and said nothing.

Boris continued to look searchingly at him. Finally the Russian said: "I shall make the call."

A protest rose to Ellis's lips and he choked it back. This was a development he had not expected. He carefully maintained his I don't-give-a-damn pose while thinking furiously. How would Jane react to the voice of a stranger? And what if she were not there, what if she had decided to break her promise? He regretted using her as a cutout. But it was too late now.

"You're a careful man," he said to Boris.

"You, too. What is your phone number?"

Ellis told him. Boris wrote the number on the message pad by the phone, then began to dial.

The others waited in silence.

Boris said. "Hello? I am calling on behalf of Ellis."

Perhaps the unknown voice would not throw her, Ellis thought: she had been expecting a somewhat wacky call anyway. Ignore everything except the address, he had told her.

"What?" Boris said irritably, and Ellis thought: Oh, shit, what is she saying now? "Yes, I am, but never mind that," Boris said. "Ellis wants you to bring the mechanism to Room Forty-one at the Hotel Lancaster in the rue de Berri."

There was another pause.

Play the game, Jane, thought Ellis.

"Yes, it's a very nice hotel."

Stop kidding around! Just tell the man you'll do it—please!

"Thank you," Boris said, and he added sarcastically: "You are most kind." Then he hung up.

Ellis tried to look as if he had expected all along there would be no problem.

Boris said: "She knew I was Russian. How did she find out?"

Ellis was puzzled for a moment, then realized. "She's a linguist," he said. "She knows accents."

Pepe spoke for the first time. "While we're waiting for mis cunt to arrive, let's see the money."

"All right." Boris went into the bedroom.

While he was out, Rahmi spoke to Ellis in a low hiss. "I didn't know you were going to pull that trick!"

"Of course you didn't," said Ellis in a feigned tone of boredom. "If you had known what I was going to do, it wouldn't have worked as a safeguard, would it?"

Boris came back in with a large brown envelope and handed it to Pepe. Pepe opened it and began counting one-hundred-franc notes.

Boris unwrapped the carton of Marlboros and lit a cigarette.

Ellis thought: I hope Jane doesn't wait before making the call to "Mustafa." I should have told her it was important to pass the message on immediately.

After a while Pepe said: "It's all there." He put the money back into the envelope, licked the flap, sealed it and put it on a side table.

The four men sat in silence for several minutes.

Boris asked Ellis: "How far away is your place?"

"Fifteen minutes on a motor scooter."

There was a knock at the door. Ellis tensed.

"She drove fast," Boris said. He opened the door. "Coffee," he said disgustedly, and returned to his seat.

Two white-jacketed waiters wheeled a trolley into the room. They straightened up and turned around, each holding in his hand a Model "D" MAB pistol, standard issue for French detectives. One of them said: "Nobody move."

Ellis felt Boris gather himself to spring. Why were there only two detectives? If Rahmi were to do something foolish, and get himself shot, it would create enough of a

diversion for Pepe and Boris together to overpower the armed men—

The bedroom door flew open, and two more men in waiters' uniforms stood there, armed like their colleagues.

Boris relaxed, and a look of resignation came over his face.

Ellis realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a long sigh.

It was all over.

A uniformed police officer walked into the room.

"A trap!" Rahmi burst out. "This is a trap!"

"Shut up," said Boris, and once again his harsh voice silenced Rahmi. He addressed the police officer. "I object most strongly to this outrage," he began. "Please take note that—"

The policeman punched him in the mouth with a leather-gloved fist.

Boris touched his lips, then looked at the smear of blood on his hand. His manner changed completely as he realized this was far too serious for him to bluff his way out. "Remember my face," he told the police officer in a voice as cold as the grave. "You will see it again."

"But who is the traitor?" cried Rahmi. "Who betrayed us?"

"Him," said Boris, pointing at Ellis.

"Ellis?" Rahmi said incredulously.

"The phone call," said Boris. "The address."

Rahmi stared at Ellis. He looked wounded to the quick.

Several more uniformed policemen came in. The officer pointed at Pepe. "That's Gozzi," he said. Two policemen handcuffed Pepe and led him away. The officer looked at Boris. "Who are you?"

Boris looked bored. "My name is Jan Hocht," he said. "I am a citizen of Argentina—"

"Don't bother," said the officer disgustedly. "Take him away." He turned to Rahmi. "Well?"

"I have nothing to say!" Rahmi said, managing to make it sound heroic.

The officer gave a jerk of his head and Rahmi, too, was handcuffed. He glared at Ellis until he was led out.

The prisoners were taken down in the elevator one at a time. Pepe's briefcase and the envelope full of hundred-franc notes were shrouded in polythene. A police photographer came in and set up his tripod.

The officer said to Ellis: "There is a black Citroen DS parked outside the hotel." Hesitantly he added: "Sir."

I'm back on the side of the law, Ellis thought. A pity Rahmi is so much more attractive a man than this cop.

He went down in the elevator. In the hotel lobby the manager, in black coat and striped trousers, stood with a pained expression frozen to his face as more policemen marched in.

Ellis went out into the sunshine. The black Citroen was on the other side of the street. There was a driver in the front and a passenger in the back. Ellis got into the back. The car pulled away fast.

The passenger turned to Ellis and said: "Hello, John."

Ellis smiled. The use of his real name was strange after more than a year. He said: "How are you, Bill?"

"Relieved!" said Bill. "For thirteen months we hear nothing from you but demands for money. Then we get a peremptory phone call telling us we've got twenty-four hours to arrange a local arrest squad. Imagine what we had to do to persuade the French to do that without telling them why! The squad had to be ready in the vicinity of the Champs-Elysees, but to get the exact address we had to wait for a phone call from an unknown woman asking for Mustafa. And that's all we know!"

"It was the only way," Ellis said apologetically.

"Well, it took some doing—and I now owe some big favors in this town—but we did it. So tell me whether it was worth it. Who have we got in the bag?"

"The Russian is Boris," said Ellis.

Bill's face broke into a broad grin. "I'll be a son of a bitch," he said. "You brought in Boris. No kidding."

"No kidding."

"Jesus, I better get him back from the French before they figure out who he is."

Ellis shrugged. "Nobody's going to get much information out of him anyway. He's the dedicated type. The important thing is that we've taken him out of circulation. It will take them a couple of years to break in a replacement and for the new Boris to build his contacts. Meanwhile we've really slowed their operation down."

"You just bet we have. This is sensational."

"The Corsican is Pepe Gozzi, a weapons dealer," Ellis went on. "He supplied the hardware for just about every terrorist action in France in the last couple of years, and a lot more in other countries. He's the one to interrogate. Send a French detective to talk to his father, Mémé Gozzi, in Marseilles. I predict you'll find the old man never did like the idea of the family getting involved in political crimes. Offer him a deal: immunity for Pepe if Pepe will testify against all the political people he sold stuff to— none of the ordinary criminals. M6m6 will go for that, because it won't count as betrayal of friends. And if Mémé goes for it, Pepe will do it. The French can prosecute for years."

"Incredible." Bill looked dazed. "In one day you've nailed probably the two biggest instigators of terrorism in the world."

"One day?" Ellis smiled. "It took a year."

"It was worth it."

"The young guy is Rahmi Coskun," Ellis said. He was hurrying on because there was someone else to whom he wanted to tell all this. "Rahmi and his group did the Turkish Airlines firebombing a couple of months ago and killed an Embassy attach^ before that. If you round up the whole group you're sure to find some forensic evidence."

"Or the French police will persuade them to confess."

"Yes. Give me a pencil and I'll write down the names and addresses."

"Save it," said Bill. "I'm going to debrief you completely back at the Embassy."

"I'm not going back to the Embassy."

"John, don't fight the program."

"I'll give you these names, then you'll have all the really essential information, even if I get run down by a mad French cab driver this afternoon. If I survive, I'll meet you tomorrow morning and give you the detail stuff."

"Why wait?"

"I have a lunch date."

Bill rolled his eyes up. "I suppose we owe you this," he said reluctantly.

"That's what I figured."

"Who's your date?"

"Jane Lambert. Hers was one of the names you gave me when you originally briefed me."

"I remember. I told you that if you wormed your way into her affections she would introduce you to every mad leftist, Arab terrorist, Baader-Meinhof hanger-on and avant-garde poet in Paris."

"That's how it worked, except I fell in love with her."

Bill looked like a Connecticut banker being told that his son is going to marry the daughter of a black millionaire: he did not know whether to be thrilled or appalled. "Uh, what's she really like?"

"She's not crazy although she has some crazy friends. What can I tell you? She's as pretty as a picture, bright as a pin, and horny as a jackass. She's wonderful. She's the woman I've been looking for all my life."

"Well, I can see why you'd rather celebrate with her than with me. What are you going to do?"

Ellis smiled. "I'm going to open a bottle of wine, fry a couple of steaks, tell her I catch terrorists for a living and ask her to marry me."

CHAPTER 2

JEAN-PIERRE leaned forward across the canteen table and fixed the brunette with a compassionate gaze. "I think I know how you feel," he said warmly. "I remember being very depressed toward the end of my first year in medical school. It seems as if you've been given more information than one brain can absorb and you just don't know how you're going to master it in time for the exams."

"That's exactly it," she said, nodding vigorously. She was almost in tears.

"It's a good sign," he reassured her. "It means you're on top of the course. The people who aren't worried are the ones who will flunk."

Her brown eyes were moist with gratitude. "Do you really think so?"

"I'm sure of it."

She looked adoringly at him. You'd rather eat me than your lunch, wouldn't you? he thought. She shifted slightly, and the neck of her sweater gaped open, showing the lacy trimming of her bra. Jean-Pierre was momentarily tempted. In the east wing of the hospital there was a linen closet that was never used after about nine-thirty in the morning. Jean-Pierre had taken advantage of it more than once. You could lock the door from the inside and lie down on a soft pile of clean sheets. . . .

The brunette sighed and forked a piece of steak into her mouth, and as she began to chew, Jean-Pierre lost interest.

He hated to watch people eat. Anyway, he had only been flexing his muscles, to prove he could still do it: he did not really want to seduce her. She was very pretty, with curly hair and warm Mediterranean coloring, and she had a lovely body, but lately Jean-Pierre had no enthusiasm for casual conquests. The only girl who could fascinate him for more than a few minutes was Jane Lambert—and she would not even kiss him.

He looked away from the brunette, and his gaze roamed restlessly around the hospital canteen. He saw no one he knew. The place was almost empty: he was having lunch early because he was working the early shift.

It was six months now since he had first seen Jane's stunningly pretty face across a crowded room at a cocktail party to launch a new book on feminist gynecology. He had suggested to her that there was no such thing as feminist medicine, there was just good medicine and bad medicine. She had replied that there was no such thing as Christian mathematics, but still it took a heretic such as Galileo to prove that the earth goes around the sun. Jean-Pierre had exclaimed: "You are right!" in his most disarming manner and they had become friends.

Yet she was resistant to his charms, if not quite impervious. She liked him, but she seemed to be committed to the American, even though Ellis was a good deal older than she. Somehow that made her even more desirable to Jean-Pierre. If only Ellis would drop out of the picture—get run over by a bus, or something . . . Lately Jane's resistance had seemed to be weakening—or was that wishful thinking?

The brunette said: "Is it true you're going to Afghanistan for two years?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Because I believe in freedom, I suppose. And because I didn't go through all this training just to do coronary bypasses for fat businessmen." The lies came automatically to his lips.

"But why two years? People who do this usually go for three to six months, a year at the most. Two years seems like forever.''

"Does it?"Jean-Pierre gave a wry smile. "It's difficult, you see, to achieve anything of real value in a shorter period. The idea of sending doctors there for a brief visit is highly inefficient. What the rebels need is some kind of permanent medical setup, a hospital that stays in the same place and has at least some of the same staff from one year to the next. As things are, half the people don't know where to take their sick and wounded, they don't follow the doctor's orders because they never get to know him well enough to trust him, and nobody has any time for health education. And the cost of transporting the volunteers to the country and bringing them back makes their 'free' services rather expensive." Jean-Pierre put so much effort into this speech that he almost believed it himself, and he had to remind himself of his true motive for going to Afghanistan, and of the real reason he had to stay for two years.

A voice behind him said: "Who's going to give their services free?"

He turned around to see another couple carrying trays of food: Valerie, who was an intern like him; and her boyfriend, a radiologist. They sat down with Jean-Pierre and the brunette.

The brunette answered Valerie's question. "Jean-Pierre is going to Afghanistan to work for the rebels."

"Really?" Valerie was surprised. "I heard you had been offered a marvelous job in Houston."

"I turned it down."

She was impressed. "But why?"

"I consider it worthwhile to save the lives of freedom fighters; but a few Texan millionaires more or less won't make any difference to anything."

The radiologist was not as fascinated by Jean-Pierre as his girlfriend was. He swallowed a mouthful of potatoes and said: "No sweat. After you come back, you'll have no trouble getting that same job offer again—you'll be a hero as well as a doctor."

"Do you think so?" said Jean-Pierre coolly. He did not like the turn the conversation was taking.

"Two people from this hospital went to Afghanistan last year," the radiologist went on. "They both got great jobs when they came back."

Jean-Pierre gave a tolerant smile. "It's nice to know that I'll be employable if I survive."

"I should hope so!" said the brunette indignantly. "After such a sacrifice!"

"What do your parents think of the idea?" wondered Valerie.

"My mother approves," said Jean-Pierre. Of course she approved: she loved a hero. Jean-Pierre could imagine what his father would say about idealistic young doctors who went to work for the Afghan rebels. Socialism doesn't mean everyone can do what they want! he would say, his voice hoarse and urgent, his face reddening a little. What do you think those rebels are? They're bandits, preying on the law-abiding peasants. Feudal institutions have to be wiped out before socialism can come in. He would hammer the table with one great fist. To make a souffle, you have to break eggs—to make socialism, you have to break heads! Don't worry, Papa, I know all that. "My father is dead," Jean-Pierre said. "But he was a freedom fighter himself. He fought in the Resistance during the war."

"What did he do?" asked the skeptical radiologist, but Jean-Pierre never answered him because he had seen, coming across the canteen, Raoul Clermont, the editor of La Revolte, sweating in his Sunday suit. What the devil was the fat journalist doing in the hospital canteen?

"I need to have a word with you," said Raoul without preamble. He was out of breath.

Jean-Pierre gestured to a chair. "Raoul—"

"It's urgent," Raoul cut in, almost as if he did not want the others to hear his name.

"Why don't you join us for lunch? Then we could talk at leisure."

"I regret I cannot."

Jean-Pierre heard a note of panic in the fat man's voice. Looking into his eyes, he saw that they were pleading with him to stop fooling around. Surprised, Jean-Pierre stood up. "Okay," he said. To cover the suddenness of it all he said playfully to the others: "Don't eat my lunch—I'll be back." He took Raoul's arm and they walked out of the canteen.

Jean-Pierre had intended to stop and talk outside the door, but Raoul kept on walking along the corridor. "Monsieur Leblond sent me," he said.

"I was beginning to think he must be behind this," said Jean-Pierre. It was a month ago that Raoul had taken him to meet Leblond, who had asked him to go to Afghanistan, ostensibly to help the rebels as many young French doctors did, but actually to spy for the Russians. Jean-Pierre had felt proud, apprehensive and most of all thrilled at the opportunity to do something really spectacular for the cause. His only fear had been that the organizations which sent doctors to Afghanistan would turn him down because he was a Communist. They had no way of knowing he was actually a Party member, and he certainly would not tell them—but they might know he was a Communist sympathizer. However, there were plenty of French Communists who were opposed to the invasion of Afghanistan. There was nevertheless a remote possibility that a cautious organization might suggest that Jean-Pierre would be happier working for some other group of freedom fighters—they also sent people to help the rebels in El Salvador, for example. In the end it had not happened: Jean-Pierre had been accepted immediately by Medecins pour la Liberte. He had told Raoul the good news, and Raoul had said there would be another meeting with Leblond. Perhaps this was to do with that. "But why the panic?"

"He wants to see you now."

"Now?" Jean-Pierre was annoyed. "I'm on duty. I have patients—''

"Surely someone else will take care of them."

"But what is the urgency? I don't leave for another two months."

"It's not about Afghanistan."

"Well, what is it about?"

"I don't know."

Then what has frightened you? wondered Jean-Pierre. "Have you no idea at all?"

"I know that Rahmi Coskun has been arrested."

"The Turkish student?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"I don't know."

"And what is it to do with me? I hardly know him."

"Monsieur Leblond will explain."

Jean-Pierre threw up his hands. "I can't just walk out of here."

"What would happen if you were taken ill?" said Raoul.

"I would tell the Nursing Officer, and she would call in a replacement. But—"

"So call her." They had reached the entrance of the hospital, and there was a bank of internal phones on the wall.

This may be a test, thought Jean-Pierre; a loyalty test, to see whether I am serious enough to be given this mission. He decided to risk the wrath of the hospital authorities. He picked up the phone.

"I have been called away by a sudden family emergency," he said when he got through. "You must get in touch with Doctor Roche immediately."

"Yes, Doctor," the nurse replied calmly. "I hope you have not received sad news."

"I'll tell you later," he said hastily. "Goodbye. Oh— just a minute." He had a postoperative patient who had been hemorrhaging during the night. "How is Madame Ferier?"

"Fine. The bleeding has not recommenced."

"Good. Keep a close watch on her."

"Yes, Doctor."

Jean-Pierre hung up. "All right," he said to Raoul. "Let's go."

They walked to the car park and got into Raoul's Renault 5. The inside of the car was hot from the midday sun. Raoul drove fast through back streets. Jean-Pierre felt nervous. He did not know exactly who Leblond was, but he assumed the man was something in the KGB. Jean-Pierre found himself wondering whether he had done anything to offend that much-feared organization; and, if so, what the punishment might be.

Surely they could not have found out about Jane.

His asking her to go to Afghanistan with him was no business of theirs. There were sure to be others in the Party anyway, perhaps a nurse to help Jean-Pierre at his destination, perhaps other doctors headed for various parts of the country: why shouldn't Jane be among them? She was not a nurse, but she could take a crash course, and her great advantage was that she could speak some Farsi, the Persian language, a form of which was spoken in the area where Jean-Pierre was going.

He hoped she would go with him out of idealism and a sense of adventure. He hoped she would forget about Ellis while she was there, and would fall in love with the nearest European, who would of course be Jean-Pierre.

He had also hoped the Party would never know that he had encouraged her to go for his own reasons. There was no need for them to know, no way they would find out, normally—or so he had thought. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps they were angry.

This is foolish, he told himself. I've done nothing wrong, really; and even if I had there would be no punishment. This is the real KGB, not the mythical institution that strikes fear into the hearts of subscribers to the Reader's Digest.

Raoul parked the car. They had stopped outside an expensive apartment building in the rue de 1'Universite. It was the place where Jean-Pierre had met Leblond the last time. They left the car and went inside.

The lobby was gloomy. They climbed the curving staircase to the first floor and rang a bell. How much my life

has changed, thought Jean-Pierre, since the last time I waited at this door!

Monsieur Leblond opened it. He was a short, slight, balding man with spectacles, and in his charcoal-gray suit and silver tie he looked like a butler. He led them to the room at the back of the building where Jean-Pierre had been interviewed. The tall windows and the elaborate moldings indicated that it had once been an elegant drawing room, but now it had a nylon carpet, a cheap office desk and some molded-plastic chairs, orange in color.

"Wait here for a moment," said Leblond. His voice was quiet, clipped and as dry as dust. A slight accent suggested that his real name was not Leblond. He went out through a different door.

Jean-Pierre sat on one of the plastic chairs. Raoul remained standing. In this room, thought Jean-Pierre, that dry voice said to me You have been a quietly loyal member of the Party since childhood. Your character and your family background suggest that you would serve the Party well in a covert role.

I hope I haven't ruined everything because of Jane, he thought.

Leblond came back in with another man. The two of them stood in the doorway, and Leblond pointed at Jean-Pierre. The second man looked hard at Jean-Pierre, as if committing his face to memory. Jean-Pierre returned his gaze. The man was very big, with broad shoulders like a football player. His hair was long at the sides but thinning on top, and he had a droopy moustache. He wore a green corduroy jacket with a rip in the sleeve. After a few seconds he nodded and went out.

Leblond closed the door behind him and sat at the desk. "There has been a disaster," he said.

It's not about Jane, thought Jean-Pierre. Thank God.

Leblond said: "There is a CIA agent among your circle of friends."

"My God!" said Jean-Pierre.

"That is not the disaster," Leblond said irritably. "It is

hardly surprising that there should be an American spy among your friends. No doubt there are Israeli and South African and French spies, too. What would these people have to do if they did not infiltrate groups of young political activists? And we also have one, of course."

"Who?"

"You."

"Oh!" Jean-Pierre was taken aback: he had not thought of himself as a spy, exactly. But what else did it mean to serve the party in a covert role? "Who is the CIA agent?" he asked, intensely curious.

"Someone called Ellis Thaler."

Jean-Pierre was so shocked that he stood up. "Ellis?"

"You do know him. Good."

"Ellis is a CIA spy?"

"Sit down," Leblond said levelly. "Our problem is not who he is, but what he has done."

Jean-Pierre was thinking: If Jane finds out about this she will drop Ellis like a hot brick. Will they let me tell her? If not, will she find out some other way? Will she believe it? Will Ellis deny it?

Leblond was speaking. Jean-Pierre forced himself to concentrate on what was being said. "The disaster is that Ellis set a trap, and in it he has caught someone rather important to us."

Jean-Pierre remembered Raoul saying that Rahmi Coskun had been arrested. "Rahmi is important to us?"

"Not Rahmi."

"Who, then?"

"You don't need to know."

"Then why have you brought me here?"

"Shut up and listen," Leblond snapped, and for the first time Jean-Pierre was afraid of him. "I have never met your friend Ellis, of course. Unhappily, Raoul has not either. Therefore neither of us knows what he looks like. But you do. That is why I have brought you here. Do you also know where Ellis lives?"

"Yes. He has a room above a restaurant in the rue de 1'Ancienne Comedie."

"Does the room overlook the street?"

Jean-Pierre frowned. He had been there only once: Ellis did not invite people home much. "I think it does."

"You're not sure?"

"Let me think." He had gone there late one night, with Jane and a bunch of other people, after a film show at the Sorbonne. Ellis had given them coffee. It was a small room. Jane had sat on the floor by the window. . . . "Yes. The window faces the street. Why is it important?"

"It means you can signal."

"Me? Why? To whom?"

Leblond shot a dangerous look at him.

"Sorry," said Jean-Pierre.

Leblond hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was just a shade softer, although his expression remained blank. "You're suffering a baptism of fire. I regret having to use you in an ... action . . . such as this when you have never done anything for us before. But you know Ellis, and you are here, and right now we don't have anybody else who knows him; and what we want to do will lose its impact if it is not done immediately. So. Listen carefully, for this is important. You are to go to his room. If he is there, you will go inside—think of some pretext. Go to the window, lean out and make sure you are seen by Raoul, who will be waiting in the street.''

Raoul fidgeted like a dog that hears people mention its name in conversation.

Jean-Pierre asked: "And if Ellis is not there?"

"Speak to his neighbors. Try to find out where he has gone and when he will be back. If it seems he has left only for a few minutes, or even an hour or so, wait for him. When he returns, proceed as before: go inside, go to the window and make sure you are seen by Raoul. Your appearance at the window is the sign that Ellis is inside—so, whatever you do, don't go to the window if he is not there. Have you understood?''

"I know what you want me to do," said Jean-Pierre. "I don't understand the purpose of all this."

"To identify Ellis."

"And when I have identified him?"

Leblond gave the answer Jean-Pierre had hardly dared to hope for, and it thrilled him to the core: "We are going to kill him, of course."

CHAPTER 3

JANE SPREAD a patched white cloth on Ellis's tiny table and laid two places with an assortment of battered cutlery. She found a bottle of Fleurie in the cupboard under the sink, and opened it. She was tempted to taste it, then decided to wait for Ellis. She put out glasses, salt and pepper, mustard and paper napkins. She wondered whether to start cooking. No, it was better to leave it to him.

She did not like Ellis's room. It was bare, cramped and impersonal. She had been quite shocked when she first saw it. She had been dating this warm, relaxed, mature man, and she had expected him to live in a place that expressed his personality, an attractive, comfortable apartment containing mementos of a past rich in experience. But you would never guess that the man who lived here had been married, had fought in a war, had taken LSD, had captained his school football team. The cold white walls were decorated with a few hastily chosen posters. The china came from junk shops and the cooking pots were cheap tinware. There were no inscriptions in the paperback volumes of poetry on the bookshelf. He kept his jeans and sweaters in a plastic suitcase under the creaky bed. Where were his old school reports, the photographs of his nephews and nieces, his treasured copy of Heartbreak Hotel, his souvenir penknife from Boulogne or Niagara Falls, the teak salad bowl everybody gets from their parents sooner or later? The room contained nothing really important, none of those things one keeps not for what they are but for what they represent, no part of his soul.

It was the room of a withdrawn man, a secretive man, a man who would never share his innermost thoughts with anyone. Gradually, and with terrible sadness, Jane had come to realize that Ellis was like that, like his room, cold and secretive.

It was incredible. He was such a self-confident man. He walked with his head high, as if he had never been afraid of anyone in his life. In bed he was utterly uninhibited, totally at ease with his sexuality. He would do anything and say anything, without anxiety or hesitation or shame. Jane had never known a man like this. But there had been too many times—in bed, or in restaurants, or just walking on the street—when she had been laughing with him, or listening to him talk, or watching the skin around his eyes crinkle as he thought hard, or hugging his warm body, only to find that he had suddenly turned off. In those switched-off moods he was no longer loving, no longer amusing, no longer thoughtful or considerate or gentlemanly or compassionate. He made her feel excluded, a stranger, an intruder into his private world. It was like the sun going behind a cloud.

She knew she was going to have to leave him. She loved him to distraction, but it seemed he could not love her the same way. He was thirty-three years old, and if he had not learned the art of intimacy by now, he never would.

She sat on the sofa and began to read The Observer, which she had bought from an international newsstand in the Boulevard Raspail on her way over. There was a report from Afghanistan on the front page. It sounded like a good place to go to forget Ellis.

The idea had appealed to her immediately. Although she loved Paris, and her job was at least varied, she wanted more: experience, adventure, and a chance to strike a blow for freedom. She was not afraid. Jean-Pierre said the doctors were considered too valuable to be sent into the combat zone. There was a risk of being hit by a stray bomb or caught in a skirmish, but it was probably no worse than the danger of being run down by a Parisian motorist. She was intensely curious about the lifestyle of the Afghan rebels. "What do they eat there?" she had asked Jean-Pierre. "What do they wear? Do they live in tents? Do they have toilets?"

"No toilets," he had replied. "No electricity. No roads. No wine. No cars. No central heating. No dentists. No postmen. No phones. No restaurants. No advertisements. No Coca-Cola. No weather forecasts, no stock market reports, no decorators, no social workers, no lipstick, no Tampax, no fashions, no dinner parties, no taxi ranks, no bus queues—"

"Stop!" she had interrupted him: he could go on like that for hours. "They must have buses and taxis."

"Not in the countryside. I'm going to a region called Five Lions Valley, a rebel stronghold in the foothills of the Himalayas. It was primitive even before the Russians bombed it."

Jane was quite sure she could live happily without plumbing or lipstick or weather forecasts. She suspected he was underestimating the danger, even outside the combat zone; but somehow that did not deter her. Her mother would have hysterics, of course. Her father, if he were still alive, would have said: "Good luck, Janey." He had understood the importance of doing something worthwhile with one's life. Although he had been a good doctor, he had never made any money, because wherever they lived—Nassau, Cairo, Singapore, but mostly Rhodesia—he would always treat poor people free, so they had come to him in crowds, and had driven away the fee-paying customers.

Her reverie was disturbed by a footfall on the stairs. She had not read more than a few lines of the newspaper, she realized. She cocked her head, listening. It did not sound like Ellis's step. Nevertheless, there was a tap at the door.

Jane put down her paper and opened the door. There stood Jean-Pierre. He was almost as surprised as she was.

They stared at one another in silence for a moment. Jane said: "You look guilty. Do I?"

"Yes," he said, and he grinned.

"I was just thinking about you. Come in."

He stepped inside and glanced around. "Ellis not here?"

"I'm expecting him soon. Have a seat."

Jean-Pierre lowered his long body onto the sofa. Jane thought, not for the first time, that he was probably the most beautiful man she had ever met. His face was perfectly regular in shape, with a high forehead, a strong, rather aristocratic nose, liquid brown eyes, and a sensual mouth partly hidden by a full, dark-brown beard with stray flashes of auburn in the moustache. His clothes were cheap but carefully chosen, and he wore them with a nonchalant elegance that Jane herself envied.

She liked him a lot. His great fault was that he thought too well of himself; but in this he was so naive as to be disarming, like a boastful child. She liked his idealism and his dedication to medicine. He had enormous charm. He also had a manic imagination which could sometimes be very funny: sparked by some absurdity, perhaps just a slip of the tongue, he would launch into a fanciful monologue which could go on for ten or fifteen minutes. When someone had quoted a remark made by Jean-Paul Sartre about soccer, Jean-Pierre had spontaneously given a commentary on a football match as it might have been described by an existentialist philosopher. Jane had laughed until it hurt. People said that his gaiety had its reverse side, in moods of black depression, but Jane had never seen any evidence of that.

"Have some of Ellis's wine," she said, picking up the bottle from the table.

"No, thanks."

"Are you rehearsing for life in a Muslim country?"

"Not especially."

He was looking very solemn. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"I need to have a serious talk with you," he said.

"We had it, three days ago, don't you remember?" she said flippantly. "You asked me to leave my boyfriend and go to Afghanistan with you—an offer few girls could resist."

"Be serious."

"All right. I still haven't made up my mind."

"Jane. I've discovered something terrible about Ellis."

She looked at him speculatively. What was coming? Would he invent a story, tell a lie, in order to persuade her to go with him? She thought not. "Okay, what?"

"He's not what he pretends to be," said Jean-Pierre.

He was being terribly melodramatic. "There's no need to speak in a voice like an undertaker. What do you mean?"

"He's not a penniless poet. He works for the American government."

Jane frowned. "For the American government?" Her first thought was that Jean-Pierre had got the wrong end of the stick. "He gives English lessons to some French people who work for the U.S. government—"

"I don't mean that. He spies on radical groups. He's an agent. He works for the CIA."

Jane burst out laughing. "You're absurd! Did you think you could make me leave him by telling me that?"

"It's true, Jane."

"It's not true. Ellis couldn't be a spy. Don't you think I'd know? I've been practically living with him for a year."

"But you haven't, though, have you?"

"It makes no difference. I know him." Even while she spoke Jane was thinking: It could explain a lot. She did not really know Ellis. But she knew him well enough to be sure that he was not base, mean, treacherous and just plain evil.

"It's all over town," Jean-Pierre was saying. "Rahmi Coskun was arrested this morning and everyone says Ellis was responsible."

"Why was Rahmi arrested?"

Jean-Pierre shrugged. "Subversion, no doubt. Anyway, Raoul Clermont is running around town trying to find Ellis and somebody wants revenge."

"Oh, Jean-Pierre, it's laughable," said Jane. She suddenly felt very warm. She went to the window and threw it open. As she glanced down at the street she saw Ellis's blond head ducking into the front door. "Well," she said to Jean-Pierre, "here he comes. Now you're going to have to repeat this ludicrous story in front of him." She heard Ellis's step on the stairs.

"I intend to," said Jean-Pierre. "Why do you think I am here? I came to warn him that they're after him."

Jane realized that Jean-Pierre was actually sincere: he really believed this story. Well, Ellis would soon set him straight.

The door opened and Ellis walked in.

He looked very happy, as if he were bursting with good news, and when she saw his round, smiling face with its broken nose and penetrating blue eyes, Jane's heart leaped with guilt to think she had been flirting with Jean-Pierre.

Ellis stopped in the doorway, surprised to see Jean-Pierre. His smile faded a little. "Hello, you two," he said. He closed the door behind him and locked it, as was his habit. Jane had always thought that an eccentricity, but now it occurred to her that it was what a spy would do. She pushed the thought out of her mind.

Jean-Pierre spoke first. "They're on to you, Ellis. They know. They're coming after you."

Jane looked from one to the other. Jean-Pierre was taller than Ellis, but Ellis was broad-shouldered and deep-chested. They stood looking at one another like two cats sizing each other up.

Jane put her arms around Ellis, kissed him guiltily and said: "Jean-Pierre has been told some absurd story about you being a CIA spy."

Jean-Pierre was leaning out of the window, scanning the street below. Now he turned back to face him. "Tell her, Ellis."

"Where did you get this idea?" Ellis asked him.

"It's all around town."

"And who, exactly, did you hear it from?" asked Ellis in a steely voice.

"Raoul Clermont."

Ellis nodded. Switching into English, he said: "Jane, would you sit down?"

"I don't want to sit down," she said irritably.

"I have something to tell you," he said.

It couldn't be true, it couldn't. Jane felt panic rise in her throat. "Then tell me," she said, "and stop asking me to sit down!"

Ellis glanced at Jean-Pierre. "Would you leave us?" he said in French.

Jane began to feel angry. "What are you going to tell me? Why won't you simply say that Jean-Pierre is wrong? Tell me you're not a spy, Ellis, before I go crazy!"

"It's not that simple," said Ellis.

"It is simple!" She could no longer keep the hysterical note out of her voice. "He says that you're a spy, that you work for the American government, and that you've been lying to me, continuously and shamelessly and treacherously, ever since I met you. Is that true? Is that true or not? Well?"

Ellis sighed. "I guess it's true."

Jane felt she would explode. "You bastard!" she screamed. "You fucking bastard!"

Ellis's face was set like stone. "I was going to tell you today," he said.

There was a knock at the door. They both ignored it. "You've been spying on me and all my friends!" Jane yelled. "I feel so ashamed."

"My work here is finished," Ellis said. "I don't need to lie to you anymore."

"You won't get the chance. I never want to see you again."

The knocking came again, and Jean-Pierre said in French: "There's someone at the door."

Ellis said: "You don't mean that—that you don't want to see me again,"

"You just don't understand what you've done to me, do you?" she said.

Jean-Pierre said: "Open the damn door, for God's sake!"

Jane muttered: "Jesus Christ," and stepped to the door. She unlocked it and opened it. There stood a big, broad-shouldered man in a green corduroy jacket with a rip in the sleeve. Jane had never seen him before. She said: "What the hell do you want?" Then she saw that he had a gun in his hand.

The next few seconds seemed to pass very slowly.

Jane realized, in a flash, that if Jean-Pierre had been right about Ellis being a spy then probably he was also right about somebody wanting revenge; and that in the world Ellis secretly inhabited, "revenge" really could mean a knock at the door and a man with a gun.

She opened her mouth to scream.

The man hesitated for a fraction of a second. He looked surprised, as if he had not expected to see a woman. His eyes went from Jane to Jean-Pierre and back: he knew that Jean-Pierre was not his target. But he was confused because he could not see Ellis, who was hidden by the half-open door.

Instead of screaming, Jane tried to slam the door.

As she swung it toward the gunman, he saw what she was doing and stuck his foot in the way. The door hit his shoe and bounced back. But in the act of stepping forward he had spread his arms, for balance, and now his gun was pointing up into the corner of the ceiling.

He's going to kill Ellis, Jane thought. He's going to kill Ellis.

She threw herself at the gunman, beating his face with her fists, for suddenly, although she hated Ellis, she did not want him to die.

The man was distracted for only a fraction of a second. With one strong arm he hurled Jane aside. She fell heavily, landing in a sitting position, bruising the base of her spine.

She saw what happened next with terrible clarity.

The arm that had shoved her aside came back and flung the door wide. As the man swung his gun hand around, Ellis came at him with the bottle of wine raised high above his head. The gun went off as the bottle came down, and the shot coincided with the sound of glass breaking.

Jane stared, horrified, at the two men.

Then the gunman slumped, and Ellis remained standing, and she realized that the shot had missed.

Ellis bent down and snatched the gun from the man's hand.

Jane got to her feet with an effort.

"Are you all right?" Ellis asked her.

"Alive," she said.

He turned to Jean-Pierre. "How many on the street?"

Jean-Pierre glanced out of the window. "None."

Ellis looked surprised. "They must be concealed." He pocketed the gun and went to his bookcase. "Stand back," he said, and hurled it to the floor.

Behind it was a door.

Ellis opened the door.

He looked at Jane for a long moment, as if he had something to say but could not find the words. Then he stepped through the door and was gone.

After a moment Jane walked slowly over to the secret door and looked through. There was another studio flat, sparsely furnished and dreadfully dusty, as if it had not been occupied for a year. There was an open door and, beyond it, a staircase.

She turned back and looked into Ellis's room. The gunman lay on the floor, out cold in a puddle of wine. He had tried to kill Ellis, right here in this room: already it seemed unreal. It all seemed unreal: Ellis being a spy; Jean-Pierre knowing about it; Rahmi being arrested; and Ellis's escape route.

He had gone. I never want to see you again, she had said to him just a few seconds ago. It seemed that her wish would be granted.

She heard footsteps on the stairs.

She raised her gaze from the gunman and looked at Jean-Pierre. He, too, seemed stunned. After a moment he crossed the room to her and put his arms around her. She slumped on his shoulder and burst into tears.