Chapter One
There's something about a graveyard, even one in
a city as bright and bustling as Paris, that makes all
•your senses just a little more alert. The Cemetery
Montparnasse was no exception.
It was on the Left Bank, a few blocks south of
the famous Café Le Dome. Because of the well-
known writers and composers buried there—
Baudelaire, de Maupassant, Saint-Saens, and
Franck, to name a few—it did a brisk daytime
tourist trade. But at an hour short of midnight, the
place was cold, quiet, and deserted.
I'd been in the cemetery since ten, carefully
checking and rechecking the grounds. It was a per-
fect spot for a set up. Almost too perfect. The maze
of tombstones and vaults offered enough cover to
hide a small army. For a single gunman, conceal-
ment would be child's play.
So far, the only thing I'd flushed out was a
hungry-looking alley cat. But I still couldn't shake
the feeling that I wasn't alone. And in my work,
ignoring your gut instincts is the quickest way to
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wind up dead. I figured this place was crowded
enough already; it really didn't need a stone
marker engraved with the name Nick Carter.
There wasn't enough time left for another sweep
of the grounds. The informant was due in ten
minutes. I hunkered down behind a tombstone
where I had a clear view of the main entrance on
Boulevard Edgar-Quinet. Wilhelmina, my 9mm
Luger, comfortably filled my hand.
Informants are a necessary part of the espionage
business; even a super-secret agency like AXE em-
ploys a few. I never liked them very much and this
one even less. He was an amateur and amateurs
have an uncanny way of getting people killed.
Through an old friend of Hawk's, we'd put word
out of a substantial reward for' any information
that could help us trace the assassin who had termi-
nated four Third-World diplomats during the past
two weeks. I'd gotten the call in my hotel room late
in the afternoon. It was a man's voice, young, ur-.
gent, and strained with fear. "I have what Boissier
says you want," he told me in heavily accented En-
glish. "Cemetery Montparnasse, eleven tonight—
and don't forget the money."
The line went dead before I could say a word. It
had all the makings of a set up, but I couldn't let it
pass by. The anonymous, frightened voice was the
only call I'd had after three days of impatient wait-
ing. I had to go.
At exactly eleven, the cemetery gate eased
cautiously open. Squatting in the wet grass, I
watched a head appear and finally the slim figure
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of a man in a trench coat. I had assumed that this
was going to be strictly one on one. But right be-
hind the man was a blonde-haired girl, barely out
of her teens.
I began to move toward them, staying low, using
the shadow and cover of the headstones. There was
no point in showing myself until I was closer. If
this was an ambush, I'd need every advantage I
could get.
After a moment's hesitation, the man started
slowly up the graveled path with the girl trailing
him a few feet back. His head darted from side to
side like someone watching a tennis match. I think
if I'd shouted "Boo" he would have jumped a good
three feet into the air.
We were almost parallel now. I stepped out of
the shadows and called out softly, "Over here."
Even that startled him a bit. But when he got a
good look at me, his thin, pallid face flooded with
relief. "Bon soir, Monsieur Carter," he said, grin-
ning. "l was beginning to think you'd stood me
up."
Gunfire split open the quiet night. The first shot
hit him high in the chest, a dark circle of blood
staining his trench coat. More slugs tore into the
body, sending it jerking and spinning in a
grotesque danse macabre. He hit the gravel face
first, his arms spread wide in supplication.
The girl stood screaming, paralyzed with fear. I
broke cover and tackled her as another burst of fire
peppered my back with flying gravel. In a flurry of
kicking legs, we rolled into the deep shadow of a
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family vault. I pushed her around the corner to
safety and brought Wilhelmina into action.
It was no damn good. At that range a Luger is
useless against a high-powered, semiautomatic ri-
fle. The rifleman was on the top floor of a dark-
ened building overlooking Rue Froideaux. From
that vantage point almost the entire cemetery was
in range. Thinking back now, I was glad that I'd
trusted my instincts; the unseen presence I'd sensed
hadn't been in the cemetery, but above it. Whoever
planned the job was a real professional.
Bullets continued to pound the vault, pockmark-
ing the limestone walls. I glanced back at the girl,
who was making a low, moaning noise like keening
at an Irish wake, her thin arms wrapped around
her shivering body. It didn't look like she'd do any-
thing dumb, like moving.
Belly down in the wet grass, I began to crawl
toward the gunner's position, weaving in and out
of the deep pools of shadow. If I cou!d make the
far wall, I would find a service entrance there that
opened on to Rue Froideaux. I was getting tired of
this duck shoot; once I reached the street it would
be a two-way battle.
I was about twenty feet from the wall when the
firepower shifted direction. I looked back and saw
the body of the young man twisting spasmodically
as the corpse took burst after burst of rapid fire. It
was senseless and stupid, hatred in its ugliest form.
The gunman was just too good not to know that he
was already dead.
As suddenly as it had begun, the shooting
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stopped. The cemetery was quiet again, but off in
the distance I could hear the urgent, high-pitched
wail of sirens. It was now or never, I thought, as I
stood up and sprinted the short distance to the ser-
vice entrance. I hit the street just in time to see a
dusty, gray Citroen take the corner on two wheels.
The deep-throated engine shifted into high gear as
the car sped off into the night. Feeling frustrated
and angry, I slipped Wilhelmina back into my
shoulder holster. The killer was gone, but there was
still plenty left for me to do.
The sound of sirens was louder now; I ran back
into the graveyard.
The body was a sodden wreck, something even a
lover would have trouble recognizing. The final
burst from the gunman had flipped him over on his
back. His shattered face was that of a man in his
mid-twenties, with curly black hair and pale-blue
eyes with long, feathery lashes. Beyond that, I
couldn't even begin to guess.
Gingerly, I peeled back the blood-soaked trench
coat and searched for his wallet. It was in his jacket
breast pocket, miraculously intact despite the dev-
astating barrage. But the contents were meager—
just a few hundred francs, a driver's license in the
name of Paul Julot, and a half-dozen business
cards for a firm called Agency Castel. There wasn't
enough time left for a thorough search of the body.
I slipped the wallet in my pocket and then, almost
as an afterthought, leaned over and closed his eyes.
The girl was where I'd left her. She watched my
approach with the blank, expressionless stare of
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someone in shock. I bent down and pulled her gen-
tly to her feet. There was no resistance in her
slender body and her hands were cold to the touch.
"Allons, " I whispered, putting my arm around her.
Without speaking, she followed me out of the
graveyard.
It was a café tabac, a small neighborhood place
with a counter in the front and a back room with
eight tables that served as the café. I sat the girl
down at a corner table and ordered two double Re-
mys at the zinc-topped bar. If the barman noticed
the grass stains on my tweed jacket, he saw no rea-
son to mention it. I left him a liberal pourboire and
carried the glasses back to the table. There were
only two other patrons, a pair of workmen in cov-
eralls sharing a carafe of wine.
"Je m'appelle Nick Carter," I said, handing her
the snifter of cognac. After what we'd been
through, I figured it was about time we introduce
ourselves.
"I speak English," she replied in a low, angry
voice, "and I already know your name. Paul said it
just before .. ." The words trailed off as she looked
down at the table. "Who the hell are you?" she de-
manded, meeting my eyes again.
"I'm a reporter for the Amalgamated Press and
Wire Services." I slipped my press card from my
wallet and held it out to her.
"Don't play games," she said, pushing my hand
aside. "Journalists don't carry guns and they don't
get innocent people murdered. " Her voice crackled
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a little as if the gory death scene were replaying
itself in her mind.
In the light of the café she looked older than I
had first guessed, early to mid-twenties. Her warm,
honey blonde hair just touched the shoulders of her
suede coat, framing a delicate oval face with a gen-
erous mouth and wide, sea green eyes. Her eyes
were red-rimmed now and her face had the slack-
ness that so often follows shock. In spite of all that,
she was a very attractive woman.
"I'm sorry about your friend," I told her hon-
estly. "There was nothing I could do. By the way,
you still haven't told me your name."
"Lauren Savord," she said quietly. Then she
began to cry. I let the jag run itself out, knowing
she would feel better when she was done. After a
few minutes her shoulders stopped moving and she
raised her face away from her cupped hands. I
handed her my handkerchief.
"l must look like merde," she said with a timid
smile.
"Your eyes are a little dewy, but other than that,
you look terrific."
she said, laughing. "Can I have a
"Liar,"
cigarette, please?"
"Certainly." I offered her my case and lit one
myself. "You were close to Julot?" I prompted.
"No, but it wasn't for lack of trying." She
grinned ruefully and took a sip of Remy. "We both
work at the Agency Castel; I'm a secretary and
Paul handled some of the bookings. I've only been
in Paris for two months. I come from Saint-Fiacre,
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a village near Matignon. It's so small you could
drive through without ever realizing you were
there. Maybe I arrived here with too many expecta-
tions. I thought I'd lead a different life in Paris, one
filled with romantic evenings, walking arm in arm
along the Seine and sharing intimate midnight sup-
pers." She paused to blow a spiral of smoke toward
the ceiling. "But it didn't work out that way. To-
night was my very first date. For weeks I'd been
hoping Paul would notice me, at least say some-
thing more than 'Hello' or 'Get this letter out right
away.' And finally, today he did."
"I find it hard to believe that it would take that
long for any man to notice you."
Lauren tossed back her head and laughed. "Ob-
viously. you don't know the Agency Castel,
Monsieur Carter. It's one of the top modeling
agencies in Paris, maybe in the world. The women
who move through there every day aren't merely
pretty, they're devastatingly beautiful."
"I suppose some of them move in the upper so-
Cial circles? The arts and diplomatic scenes?" I
tried to make the question sound casual, despite its
importance.
"That's true," she responded quickly. "They're
always being written up in the columns as having
been seen at some premiere, gallery opening, or re-
ception to honor a visiting head of state. It's only
natural,"
she added with a typical Gallic shrug.
"Powerful men like to be seen in the company of
beautiful women."
I nodded silent agreement. This sounded as
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though it might be the first real lead I had on the
assassinations. All four victims had been high-
ranking diplomats from Third World or emerging
nations and in each instance they had been
murdered in a high-security area, either the em-
bassy itself or at a well-guarded, carefully screened
reception. This was no amateur operation. Each
one had been killed with swift, quiet precision—no
mess, no commotion, just another dead body to
add to the list. The methods varied: an air-filled
hypodermic, curare poisoning, and in the last two
cases, a simple knife across the throat. At three of
the scenes, traces were found indicating the possi-
bility that the assassin was a woman.
"You're suddenly very quiet," Lauren chided
me.
"Just thinking. Tell me, weren't you surprised
when Paul asked you out after all that time?"
"Well, I certainly didn't expect it,"
she said,
grinning again. "He spoke to me about an hour
before closing; he seemed nervous, jumpy, not like
himself at all. He practically insisted I spend the
evening with him. Of course, at the time I was very
flattered, but all through dinner and the film we
saw afterward, he kept looking at the people
nearby as if he were afraid someone was watching
him. It didn't do a whole lot for my ego."
"I could see where it wouldn't." I held out my
cigarette case again, lit us both, and took a healthy
sip of Remy. "What reason did he give you for
going to the Cemetery Montparnasse?"
' 'Paul told me he had to meet a man about a
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business matter. He said it would only take a few
minutes and then we could go and have a nightcap
at La Coupule. It sounded a little weird at the time,
but I figured the way the evening was going what
did I have to lose." Her wide eyes fixed me with
startling intensity. "Why was Paul meeting you
there?" she asked abruptly.
"In a way, it was a business matter," I admitted.
"Julot had information to sell and I was the buyer.
It's a common enough occurrence in journalism."
"What about murder? Is that common, too?"
"It happens. If I could have prevented it, I would
have. I certainly didn't expect anything like that to
happen."
Lauren finished the last of her cognac with a sin-
gle, gulping swallow. "It wasn't as though we were
close or anything," she said quietly, "but nobody
should have to die that way."
My own thoughts were nowhere near as sympa-
thetic. Maybe she hadn't realized it yet, but Julot
had undoubtedly asked her out for a lot more than
just the pleasure of her company. If the killer was
someone they both knew, he had assumed he
would be safer with a possible witness tagging
along. Or perhaps he was one of those men who
can't make a move without someone holding their
hand. He had seemed scared enough to be the type.
Whatever the reason, he had knowingly put an in-
nocent woman in danger of her life. Let somebody
else mourn the bastard.
' 'I'm going home now," said Lauren, pushing
back her chair. We walked out together.
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I found a cab rank a few blocks away on
Boulevard Raspail. "Would you like me to see you
home?" I asked.
She shook her head. "You seem awfully sure of
yourself, Monsieur Carter. What makes you think
I won't go straight to the police? Tell them I was
there when it happened, give them your name?"
"You can if you want to," I said calmly. "But
there wouldn't be much point to it. It won't change
the fact that Julot's dead and there's nothing I can
tell them that they don't already have from the evi-
dence at the scene."
"You know," said Lauren smiling, "for no rea-
son at all I trust you."
"I'm glad," I said truthfully. "I'll phone you
tomorrow if you like."
"I'll be home: 47 Rue Mazarine. It's in the
book. "
I watched her taxi until it merged with the flow
of northbound traffic. I'd considered grabbing the
next cab in line and following her home, but it
would only have been a waste of time. If the killer
had wanted her dead she would have been back in
the graveyard with Julot know.
I checked my watch. It was half past twelve,
which would make it seven-thirty in Washington.
Knowing my boss, David Hawk, he would still be
at the office. I had a feeling he'd be pleased to hear
that things were finally starting to happen.
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Chapter Two
Number 19 Rue Froideaux was a turn-of-the-cen-
tury luxury apartment building. It obviously had
just been remodeled; the windows were all curtain-
less blanks and the tiny foyer smelled of fresh paint
and plaster dust. If the police had been here at all,
they were now long gone. My footsteps echoed
sharply as I crossed the uncarpeted marble floor.
"Bon jour, Monsieur, a beautiful morning, no?"
He popped out of the concierge's cubical like a
child's spring-up toy, middle-aged and balding,
with a white carnation in his buttonhole and the
hearty smile of rental agents the world round.
"It's a fine day," I agreed. "I'm interested in an
apartment on the top floor, something overlooking
the street if it's available."
"l have only one left," he said eagerly. "Number
8, three bedrooms, two baths—and the view of
Cemetery Montparnasse is superb."
"That sounds like exactly what I'm looking for."
"Good. Let me just lock up the office and I'll
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"If it's all the same to you," I said quickly, "I'd
prefer to look around on my own."
"As you wish, Monsieur." With a crestfallen ex-
pression, he slipped a key off a well-loaded ring
and handed it to me.
"By the way," I said, "a friend of mine was sup-
posed to stop by, late yesterday, to view the same
apartment."
"La jeune fille, tres magnifique, " responded the
agent with a knowing leer. "You are indeed for-
tunate to have a friend of such beauty."
I returned his grin. "That certainly sounds like
Christine. Tall, blonde hair and blue eyes?"
"Yes, she was tall, but as for the rest it was im-
possible to tell because of the hat and dark
glasses."
"That was her, all right," I told him, heading for
the elevator.
"It's the first door on your left," he called out
after me.
As it turned out, I didn't need the key after all.
The tall oak door opened at the touch of my hand.
I eased Wilhelmina free of my shoulder holster and
went in crouching low. The apartment was empty.
I didn't bother with a room-to-room search, be-
cause the dusty parquet floor clearly revealed the
passage of a single visitor in a trail that lead from
the door to the balcony and back again.
The footprints were small, made by a woman's
high-heel shoes. From the length of the stride she
was five feet nine inches at least, probably taller.
When describing my imaginary "friend" to the
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agent downstairs, I'd said "tall" for a specific rea-
son. Height is one of the prime requirements of a
fashion model. Being tres magnifique doesn't hurt,
either. Every move I'd made so far seemed to bring
me that much closer to the Agency Castel.
I stepped through French doors and out onto the
balcony. It was small but sturdy, with a waist high
wrought-iron railing in an elaborate floral design. I
hunkered down and peered over the top. From a
squatting position all but the very nearest part of
the cemetery was within easy range of someone
with a high-powered rifle. My eyes sought out the
spot where Julot had died. In spite of an early
morning rain, the gravel still retained the rust-
brown color of blood.
There was no trace of her presence on the
balcony floor, not a single cigarette butt or empty
shell case. She'd probably waited there for hours---
patient, motionless, poised for the kill. Gaining en-
trance would have been easy. Either she'd ducked
back inside after she'd returned the key or simply
returned later to pick the single, flimsy lock I'd
seen on the lobby door. Although I didn't like the
results in the least, I couldn't help admiring the
handiwork.
The rental agent was waiting for me in the lobby.
"Monsieur is impressed?" he asked, smiling.
' 'Very." I handed him back the key. "But I'd like
to talk it over with my friend before I make a de-
cision. "
The Café Rénard Rouge never opens early.
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It's a late-night spot, one of the favorite haunts of
students, radicals, and people who break the law
without ever making a living at it. Despite the often
explosive mixture of crime and politics, it was a
quiet, well-run café. The credit for that belonged
entirely to André Boissier, le rénard rouge him-
self.
Although it was after eleven, I wasn't surprised
to see the shutters still up and the outdoor tables
and chairs stacked against the wall. I went up to
the door and rapped on the glass.
"Fermé," a deep, rumbling voice called out.
I knocked again, louder.
"Cochon, " the voice bellowed. The epithet was
followed by slow, shuffling footsteps. Suddenly, an
angry red face was peering out at me from behind
the glass.
"Nick!" With recognition, the face broke into a
wolfish grin. André Broissier opened the door, his
red-rimmed eyes blinking at the sunlight.
"Good morning, André. I didn't wake you up,
did 1?"
"Of course not. Come in, Nick. I've just opened
a new bottle of vintage calvados."
Boissier was a big man, six feet four and well
over two hundred-and-fifty pounds. At sixty-three,
his wavy red hair and full beard were flecked with
gray, but his powerful arms and shoulders still
looked as though they could squeeze the life out of
a man without even trying. Drinking had aged him
the most. His face had the pinkish, broken-veined
flush of a heavy tippler.
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He went behind the bar and poured calvados
into two pony glasses, filling them to the rim.
"Bonne chance, " he murmured, sliding my glass
across the scarred walnut.
"Bonne chance, " I replied. The tangy apple bran-
dy had the warmth and kick of controlled fire. It
was the best calvados I'd tasted in a long time.
Broissier finished his in one deep pull and wiped
his beard with the back of his sleeve. "Too bad
about Julot," he said quietly.
"I figured you would have heard about that by
now. "
The big man laughed. "More like an hour after
it happened. He wasn't any great loss; a ladies'
man, and from what I've heard, not even much in
that department."
"Who gave him the word, André?"
Broissier shrugged. "A friend of a friend of a
friend. I put it out just as Hawk requested. Julot
was a regular here; he could have heard it from
anyone of a dozen people." He paused and poured
us both another shot. "Was he able to tell you any-
thing before he died, mon ami?"
I shook my head. "We said hello and then the
shooting started."
André laughed again and tossed back his bran-
Like all men who've lived for long periods of/
time in constant fear for their lives. Broissier saw a
certain grim humor in death. As a young man, he'd
been a leader in the maquis, the French resistance-
movement. For three years he and his men had
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waged a hit-and-run war on the Germans occupy-
ing France. Seeming to be everywhere at once,
they'd blown rail lines and arms depots, as-
sassinated high-ranking Gestapo officers, and
saved more than three hundred Jews and gypsies en
route to the death camps. Because of his tactical
brilliance and lightning speed he became known as
le rénard rouge, the red fox.
I knew Boissier because of Hawk. He was one of
three men I'd met who had the rare privilege of
calling my boss by his first name. They went back
a long way, to Hawk's very first assignment in the
field. He was just twenty-four, as he liked to re-
mind me, a raw Army recruit singled out to serve in
the OSS by Wild Bill Donovan himself. After two
months training, they dropped him in occupied
France to operate as their liaison with the maquis
south of Paris.
Hawk always ended the story there. Despite the
close working relationship we'd developed over the
years, I never felt I had the right to press him for
details. Maybe some of it was still classified or
maybe the retelling raised ghosts and memories
better left undisturbed. I never asked and he never
told me. The one thing that he did say was that
he'd learned more "tradecraft" during these eigh-
teen months spent with Boissier than he ever did
during his long postwar run as an active agent, and
that the burly Frenchman had saved his life twice.
That alone was enough for me.
"Another drink, Nick?" André prompted.
"One more and then I've got to be going." I lit a
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cigarette and started in on my third brandy.
"There's something I'd like you to do for me, An-
dré."
"Name it," he responded eagerly.
"Spread the word around that my offer's still
open, five thousand in gold Krugerrands for any
information on the embassy killings."
"Money like that always brings someone out of
the woodwork," he said, grinning. "It's only a mat-
ter of time. No operation can remain a secret very
long without someone on the outside knowing
about it."
I nodded silent agreement. As far as I knew,
Boissier had never heard of AXE or of my own
status as Killmaster N3. Through his long associa-
tion with Hawk, he knew we were both in the
"business," but that was as far as it went. He was.
a friend and a useful contact. Anything morel
would have jeopardized AXE security, not to men-
tion my own life.
J said goodbye after promising to check in with
him later that evening.
The sun was out in full force now, its warm glo
burning off the chill in the November air. I decided
to combine business with pleasure by asking
Lauren to have lunch with me at Ledoyen on the
Champs Élysées. I rang her number from a
tobacconist's and got a busy signal. Forty-seven
Rue Mazarine was less than ten minutes away. The
walk would do me good.
She lived in one of those big, anonymous apart-
ment complexes that have been springing up all
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over Paris since the early sixties. This one was all
brick and glass, with tiny balconies and a parking
garage below street level. I found Lauren's name
opposite the bell for 2-B. In response to my ring,
the lobby door clicked open and I walked in.
He leapt out of the shadows in a low crouch, a
flaxen-haired man in a leather windbreaker. Light
gleamed off the knife blade as he rushed me, the tip
of the Bowie angled up for a single, gut-spilling
slash at my unprotected abdomen.
I twisted aside and grabbed his knife arm. He
was going so fast that the momentum carried him
past me. I held on and twisted. He screamed as he
hit the wall and the Bowie fell from his grasp, mak-
ing a loud clanging noise on the tile floor.
I slipped Hugo into my hand and started toward
him. His eyes widened at the sight of the stiletto.
Noisily sucking in air, he scrambled for the knife
just a few inches from his outstretched fingers.
I brought Hugo down in a flashing arc. He
screamed again as the pencil-thin blade dug out a
deep gash in his forearm. Blood gushed from the
open wound, spattering his cheap leather jacket
like a carelessly flicked paintbrush.
Rolling over, he kicked out at my groin. I
pivoted and took the blow on my thigh. He was
good, but running scared now. He tried to pull
himself up, using the wall for support, but his eyes
had that doomed look that says this is it, the end.
It was just as well that he didn't know I wanted
information, not blood. I grabbed his shoulder and
slammed him against the wall. We came face to
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face as I brought Hugo's tip to rest at the base of
his throat.
"Who sent you?" I demanded. "Give me a
name, just one name, and you can walk away from
this. "
"No." The single word came out in a harsh,
sibilant whisper. Our eyes met for a second and
then he snapped his head forward, burying Hugo
in his throat halfway to the hilt.
I pulled the stiletto free and eased him down to
the floor. Blood poured freely onto his chest. It was
a hell of a way to commit suicide, fanatical and
insane. If he could do this to himself, then what
had he done to Lauren?
I took the stairs two at a time with Hugo in one
hand and Wilhelmina in the other. The door to
2-B was ajar. I kicked it open and entered in a
shooter's crouch, making my body as small a target
as possible.
The room was empty.
In spite of the noisy entrance, there was no re-
sponse of any kind. If Lauren was alive she would
have cried out or tried to signal me in some way.
Both the bedroom and kitchen were empty and un-
disturbed. Maybe she had decided to go into work
after all, I kidded myself.
Her clothes were lying in a heap on the bath-
room floor: a blue silk camisole and panties,_
nylons and a flower-print cotton dress. I leaned
over and pushed back the shower curtain.
Lauren was in the tub, curled up on her side in
the fetallike position of a sleeping infant. She was
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naked except for the twisted wire that had been
used to bind her hands and feet. A towel had been
shoved in her mouth to gag her.
As I reached down for it, her eyes flickered open,
wild and bright, and very much alive.
21







Chapter Three
I lifted her up to a sitting position and eased the
gag from her mouth. She sucked in air in hungry
gulps, her body trembling from the effort. Her sea
green eyes had the glassy, glazed-over look of
someone suffering from a deep and traumatic
shock.
"It's all right," I said softly. "I'm here and no
one is going to hurt you now."
"I knew you'd come," she said in a hoarse whis-
per. "I didn't know how or why, but I knew you'd
come."
She opened her mouth to say something more,
but her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears and she
dropped her head so that her honey blonde hair
covered it like a mask.
Finally, she looked up again and met my gaze.
"Mon Dieu, " she said in a barely audible voice.
"He told me he was going to kill me. Exactly how
he would do it and exactly what I was going to feel.
He was holding that knife the whole time . . . cut
ting patterns in the air . . . as if I were already un-
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der the blade. And when he looked at me .. . my
body .
. it was always with the same, cold-eyed
smile. It was horrible. I felt—" The rest of the
words were choked off and lost in a long, plaintive
sob.
I reached out and put a gentling hand on her
shoulder. It was a simple reflex action—and it was
also the wrong thing to do. I had no way of know-
ing. In shock cases like this, there just aren't any
easy-to-follow rules.
At my touch, the sob turned into a silent scream
and for a split-second her face was a twisted mask
of agony. Then, mercifully, she blacked out. I man-
aged to catch her head before it could hit the side
of the tub. She was better off like this; a few hours
of oblivion would go a long way toward healing the
inner scars.
I lifted her up and backed my way out of the
bathroom. The white porcelain, chrome fixtures,
and gleaming tiles were beginning to remind me
too much of a morgue. I had visited enough of
them over the years—it comes with the territory.
Some were newer and cleaner than others, but ex-
cept for the tenants they were all basically the same
—cold, brightly lit rooms that smelled of disinfec-
tant and death.
Lauren's supple, long-legged body was light in
my arms. I carried her into the living room and put
her down on a high-backed green velour couch.
Working quickly but gently, I loosened the twisted
wire from her ankles and wrists, doing my very best
to ignore the scent of her perfume and the way the
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sunlight made her skin glow like burnished gold.
Time was running out. And there was another
body cooling rapidly in the lobby below. I wanted
to get Lauren out of there before the Süreté ar-
rived. I'd watched them work on several occasions
and after what Lauren had been through, they
could very easily drive her over the edge. Maybe
forever.
As if on cue, the piercing shrill of aflic's whistle
cut through the steady flow of noise from the
street. I slipped the last of the wire off Lauren's
ankles and headed back to where I'd first found
her.
The pile of clothes on the floor didn't offer much
in the way of choices. The dress was one of those
complicated affairs, all buttons, hooks and snaps;
so it would have to be the camisole or nothing. The
blue silk undergarment was just long enough to
cover the vital parts, but the way it was cut
wouldn't leave much to the imagination.
I slipped her limp arms through the straps,
tugged the camisole down, and gathered her up in
my arms again. The sounds from the street were
more frantic now: orders being shouted, car doors
slamming, boots thudding heavily against the
pavement. The gendarmerie were quickly cordon-
ing off the scene of the crime.
The tiny second floor landing was deserted. I
jabbed the elevator button with my elbow,
murmuring a silent prayer that the police hadn't]
already demobilized the car. Green lights flickered
on the panel over the door as the car began a slow,
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descent from three floors above. One good thing
about these modern buildings is that they don't
have the old-style European elevators—glass and
steel cages that gave the passenger about as much
privacy as a fish bowl.
Finally, the car reached two and the doors slid
open. It was empty—our luck was running good. I
stepped iff and pressed the button marked G, hold-
ing it firmly down as we began to drop. If every-
thing went according to plan, we'd have a quiet,
uninterrupted trip down to the basement-level ga-
rage—uninterrupted in particular by a lobby full of
gendarmes.
I took a deep breath as the green light on the
overhead panel moved to L The elevator stopped.
The doors slid open.
"We'll catch this découpeur soon enough, Chief
Inspector," said a soft voice with a thick provincial
accent. "It has all the signs of a Union Corse kill-
ing, don't you agree?"
"Perhaps. "
There were nearly a dozen cops in the lobby, uni-
form and plain-clothes, working in groups of two
and three. The two men talking were only a few
feet away from the open elevator doors. I could
have reached out and touched them if I'd wanted
to.
Instead, I continued to jab the button that would
take us down to the basement. Just as the doors
started closing, Lauren let out a low moan and
began thrashing wildly, her bare feet pounding out
a frantic tattoo on the car wall.
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The pair by the elevator turned in unison. I
caught a final glimpse of the man addressed as
"Chief Inspector" just before the doors closed in
his face. His expression was a mixture of bewilder-
ment and rage.
Even more importantly, he had gotten a good
look at me. The eye contact only lasted a split-sec-l
ond, but I had a feeling he would remember me all
too well.
His subordinate's words were more comforting.
Perhaps because the dead man also had been
armed with a knife, he had quickly pegged the kill-
ing as the work of the Union Corse, the French
equivalent of the Mafia. On the surface it did have}
the look of a grudge murder or gangland-style vent
dctta. I was the découpeur he had referred to---
découpeur as in "carver of meat."
When the elevator doors parted on G level, I saw
that our troubles were far from over. Two blue
caped gendarmes were guarding the entrance and
exit ramps; one was stationed on the Rue Mazarine
end and the other at the rear of the garage where
the ramp led out to Rue Dauphine.
My only problem was how to neutralize them
both at the same time. Even if I put Lauren down
the distance between the two cops still made it im
possible. Of course I could have used Wilhelmina
but my fight wasn't with the French police. In this
game they were little more than innocent by
standers.
There was only one solution. They would have
to come to me.
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"Au secours!" I yelled, walking out in plain view
of both flics. "Mademoiselle is in immediate need
of medical attention. You'd better take a look at
her. I'm not even sure she's still breathing."
I'll never know for sure whether it was my call
for help or the trim line of Lauren's bare legs, but
both men deserted. their posts at a brisk trot. The
one from the Rue Dauphine end reached us first.
"What happened?" he asked, his eyes widening
as he saw what Lauren was wearing.
"I don't know," I said. "We were coming down
in the elevator together when all of a sudden she
just passed out. I think she hit her head when she
fell. You'd better take her, my arms are about to
give out."
Before he could protest, I shoved Lauren into his
arms.
"I'll call an ambulance," his partner said. Ile
was standing just behind me, a little to the right.
I swung round and knocked him out with a light
blow to the neck. As his legs buckled, I grabbed his
collar and eased him down to the concrete floor.
"Son of a bitch," the first cop said in a stunned
whisper. Short of dropping Lauren, there wasn't
much else he could do. As he knelt to put her
down; I snapped back his head with an open palm
to the chin. When he woke up he'd have one hell of
a headache, but no serious physical injuries. The
whole thing took less than a minute, but I figured
the Chief Inspector's men couldn't be far behind
us.
The second car I checked had its keys in the igni-
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tion. I laid Lauren on the seat beside me and
backed the small Renault out of its stall. Just as I
began turning toward the Rue Dauphine exit, the
stairwell door slammed open and half a dozen cops
came spilling out, running with guns drawn.
I hit the clutch, shifted gears, and floored the gas
pedal.
28








Chapter Four
Paris and New York are alike in many ways. One
trait shared by the residents of both cities is a kind
of wordly "we've-seen-it-all" attitude. Even the
most outlandish dress or behavior rarely shocks
them, and something that might draw a crowd in
another city doesn't even rate a second glance from
a native Parisian or New Yorker.
So I wasn't surprised by the reception we got
when we entered the lobby of the' Plaza Athé-
née. Lauren was still unconscious, but not as
scantily dressed as before. I'd wrapped her up in an
old army blanket I'd found on the back-seat floor
of the Renault. It was frayed at the edges and it
carried the smells of love-making and spilt wine.
Lauren's long, tapered legs still dangled freely, but
the rest of her body was enveloped in a scratchy
wool cocoon.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Carter. "
"Bonjour, Theo." The liveried attendant
opened the door with a flourish, his eyes staring
straight ahead at a point somewhere over my
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shoulder. I was a frequent guest and a generous
tipper. I don't think Theo would have blinked an
eye if I'd walked in carrying an M-16.
I crossed the luxurious circular lobby with
Lauren in my arms. Except for an obvious pair of
German tourists, no one so much as looked up
from their newspapers or apéritifs. I stopped at
the concierge's desk and was again greeted by
name.
' 'Any messages?" I asked. I was expecting a call
from Hawk with a cross-referenced list of names
that I'd asked for when I'd phoned in my report
last night.
"Non, Monsieur Carter. Is there anything else
you require?"
"Not at the moment—although I may need the
hotel physician later."
"You need only to phone me. Your key,
Monsieur." He reached across the desk and laid it
gently on top of the blanket. There wasn't much
chance of it slipping off since the Plaza Athénée
attaches each key to a large plastic medallion with
the guest's name inscribed on the reverse side. It's
a nice personal touch and it also allows the con-
cierge to address each guest by name.
The service was one of many reasons why I
always stayed in the Plaza Athénée when I had
business in Paris. It is also one of the city's most
beautiful hotels, with its arched windows and or-
nate balconies done in the palace-like style of pre-
World War I architecture. Among the half-dozen
great luxury hotels on the Right Bank, such as the
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Georges V, Le Bristol, and Le Ritz, the Plaza Athé-
née has the best location. It's on Avenue Mon-
taigne just off the Champs Elysées, only a block
from the Rond Point and a few minutes walk from
the Arc de Triomphe.
When I reached the small suite I had on the sixth
floor, I stripped off Lauren's blanket and tucked
her into my bed with the down-filled édredon to
keep her warm. One side of me was all for waking
her up. I urgently needed to know everything that
had happened before I arrived on the scene. A
name, a place, even a few words of political
philosophy would help me to narrow the field. I
did have the Agency Castel lead, but there was no
telling how far that would take me.
As much as I wanted to, I still couldn't wake her.
Last night she'd watched as the man beside her was
cut down by a sniper and today her apartment had
been invaded by a sadistic, knife-wielding maniac.
That was one hell of a lot for any woman to han-
dle, especially a nonagent who still didn't know
why this was all happening. The best thing I could
do for Lauren was to let her sleep her fill. I hoped
she would wake up a rational, functioning human
being. If she did go into shock, the hotel doctor
could be with her in minutes.
There wasn't much else for me to do but wait for
Lauren to wake up and for Hawk to phone with
the information I'd requested. So I made myself a
Chivas and water and carried it out to the balcony.
My room overlooks the Avenue Montaigne, a
pleasant, tree-lined street that houses numerous
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specialty shops and boutiques.
The midday sun was out in full force, cutting an
intricate shadow pattern through the trees, its
warm light somehow making all the passing wom-
en a little lovelier and more desirable than they
really were. But then, that's Paris—magical in
its way.
An hour and a half passed and I was just finish-
ing my second drink when I heard Lauren
thrashing around. I went in and found her tangled
up in the édredon. Her wide, sea green eyes
tracked me as I crossed the room.
"It's you," she said. Her face softened a bit and
her eyes lost that fearful, haunted look. "Where am
I?" she demanded. "And why am I here and—what
in God's name is going on?"
"The first one is easy. You're in my room at the
Plaza Athénée. There are several reasons for the
'why,' but mainly because it's the safest place for
you to be right now. The rest of it is going to take
some explaining and even then there certain things
I can't tell you . . . things you'd be better off not
knowing. "
"Don't try and play games with me. I know
you're an espion—that press card is just a CIA cover."
Espion, the French word for spy. Someone knew
I was an intelligence agent, but they didn't know
who I worked for. Very interesting.
"Did the man with the knife say I was CIA?"
Lauren nodded. "He even knew your name and
what you looked like. He said you were working
against France, trying to undermine our govern-
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ment and economic stability."
"l guess he told you all this before he started in
with the Bowie knife?"
"Oui." She trembled slightly and pulled the
édredon around her as if the room had suddenly
grown cold.
I offered her a cigarette, took one myself, and lit
them both. "Listen," I said sitting down on the
edge of the bed, "you have to trust someone,
Lauren. I didn't get you involved in this, your
friend Julot did. Apart from the fact that I always
like meeting a beautiful woman, I really wish you'd
never walked into that graveyard. But you did and
now I need your help .
France needs your help,
too. "
"How do I know that what that man said isn't
"You just have to trust me," I said. "It might
help if you forgot about the accusations for a
minute and remembered what they did to Julot and
what they threatened to do to you. It doe.sn't exact-
ly add up to this country's motto—Liberté .
Egalité
Fraternité."
"That's true, " she admitted. "But I still can't un-
derstand why you ran away from the gendarmes
last night."
"Let's just say I am here on government busi-
ness. If we'd waited around for the police, they'd
want to question us both. I don't know if you've
ever had any dealings with the flics, but they have
a neat little law here called garde-å-vue. It means
they can hold you for twenty-four hours for no rea-
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son at all, forty-eight if they think the case involves
national security. I couldn't risk letting that hap-
pen. There's too much at stake."
Lauren gave me a slow, hesitant smile. "All
right, you've convinced me. At least for the mo-
ment," she quickly added.
"Fine. Now if you're feeling up to it, I'd like you
to tell me everything that's happened to you since
I put you in the cab last night."
"First, another cigarette, please."
I gave her one and watched as she pushed the
pillows back and made herself comfortable.
"When I got home," she began, "I checked to
make sure all the windows were locked and put the
night-chain on the door. I felt like I wanted to sleep
for a week, but I made myself take a bath first. I
don't think I had any blood on me, but I just didn't
feel clean. Then I slept, woke up around ten, and
made myself café au lait. The man came a little
after eleven."
"Came how?" I asked. "Did he break in or did
you open the door for him?"
"I let him in," she said meekly. "He told me he
was with the CRS, the national security police, and
that he wanted to question me about Julot's
murder."
"Did he question you about it?"
"No," she said looking away from me. "I feel-
like such an imbecile."
"Don't," I said softly. "We've all been there be-
fore. Besides, you had no way of knowing."
"Well, there was something strange," she said,
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meeting my eyes again. "He didn't seem interested
in what happened in the cemetery. It was almost as
if he already knew all about it. He just kept asking
me about what happened before. 'Did Paul speak
to anyone after we left work? Did he say anything
odd or out of place during the course of the eve-
ning? Did he give you any message or object to
pass on to M'sieur Carter?' He went on like that
for nearly half an hour. Always the same questions,
just phrased a little bit differently each time."
"Let's go back to the beginning," I suggested.
"Did he give you his name? Show you any identi-
fication?"
"Dossin," Lauren said quickly. "No first name.
He did flash a small leather card case under my
nose. But he only held it open for a second; it could
have contained an old Métro ticket for all I
know."
"This next question is important, Lauren. Judg-
ing from his accent, his mannerisms, where would
you say he was from?"
"France," she replied without hesitation. "Not
Paris, but somewhere in the south. Maybe
Gascogne or Auvergne."
"That's important information," I said en-
couragingly. She seemed more confident now, but
there was a distant quality to her voice as if she
were describing a movie she'd seen or some inci-
dent that happened long ago. Sooner or later she
would have to come to grips with the fact that it
had happened to her.
"Now let's go back to where we left off," I said.
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T »
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I eased her back and slipped the camisole off.
Some women reach their peak in their teens, but
Lauren had blossomed later. Her lightly tanned
skin was flawlessly smooth and full breasts were
firm and upright, their dark circular nipples erect.
As we continued to kiss and caress, her hands
eagerly undid my shirt and belt. I slipped out of my
clothes and lay down beside her. We took our time,
each of us exploring the other, touching, feeling,
building the fire.
She moaned softly as I entered her, her long legs
riding my back while she held me close. At first the
love-making was a frantic reaffirmation of life, but
gradually we moved into the intimate rhythms of
pleasure. I'm still not sure how long we stayed to-
gether, except that when we finally stopped, night
had already begun to darken the Paris skyline.
38








Chapter Five
"Christine Dalton, Ann-Marie Michaels, and Gail
Huntington," Hawk said, reading down the list.
'6 The first two are French nationals and the last
one is an American expatriate. Ali three of them
are high fashion models working for the Agency
Castel—and all three of them attended the recep-
tions at which a diplomat was terminated."
As usual, he was precise and to the point.
Hawk's voice had the clear, metallic quality to it
that we always get whenever we're using the
scrambler on both ends. His call had come a few
minutes after eight, just as Lauren and I were fin-
ishing up a room service supper of veal, profit-
eroles, and a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet.
Through the half-open door I could see her head in
profile, the lamplight shining on her honey gold
hair.
"That does tend to back up your Castel theory,"
he went on, ' 'but running the guest lists through
the computer also shows us that there were eighty-
seven other people who attended all of the recep-
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tions. I'm sure you already realize this isn't a mat-
ter of coincidence. Almost all of these people were
diplomats who accepted the invitations because it
was part of their job. It would have been an insult,
a breach of protocol not to."
"What about the other nondiplomats?" I asked.
"Alex Raymond, the newspaper columnist, and
his wife, and Gail Huntington's escort, Carlos
Ramez. He's an importer with offices in Paris and
Bogota. His uncle is cultural attaché to the Co-
lombian Embassy in Paris." Hawk paused, and I
heard the metallic click of a lighter as he fired up
one of the foul-smelling cigars he was constantly
smoking. ' 'I'm sending all the information we have
by courier," he continued, "but as far as the three
models are concerned, it amounts to practically
nothing. "
"I can take care of that on this end, sir."
"I'm sure you can, Nick. *Ihat isn't what worries
me. Our biggest problem is the upcoming Arab oil
summit. It's due to start in three days and in spite
of the diplomatic pressure both from France and
ourselves, the Arabs flatly reject the idea of post-
poning it or relocating somewhere other than Par-
is. The Arabs are a logical target for this kind of
terrorist group and we both know what the conse-
quences could be if they were successful."
The implications were so enormous that even/
Hawk hesitated in speaking about them on a se-l
cured line. Still, I knew exactly what he meant. The,
Middle East was already a tinderbox, needing only
the smallest spark to set it ablaze. An assassination
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would do just that. Hostile neighboring states
would jump at the chance to wage war on one an-
other. The world's oil supply would be drastically
reduced almost overnight, pulling the superpowers
into the conflict whether they wanted to be in-
volved or not. What Hawk didn't want to talk
about was global confrontation—in short, a Third
World War.
"Is there anything else, sir?" I asked.
"Just one other thing, Nick. I've arranged for
you to attend a reception at the Somalian consulate
tomorrow evening. All of the suspects are also on
the guest list. It should give you a chance to look
them over in their natural habitat. I'm sure you
won't have any problem finding a suitable young
lady to take along. "
"I don't think so, sir." We both said good night
and when the line went dead, I unhooked the port-
able scrambler, packing away its miniaturized
components inside the frame of the typewriter
carried as part of my journalistic cover.
"You were a long time on the phone," Lauren
said when I walked back into the room. "I was
starting to think you were neglecting me," she
added, her tone of voice half-flippant, half-serious.
"Possibly my new outfit will make you think twice
about that."
She rose from her chair and did a slow, full-circle
turn for my inspection. She did look fantastique.
Her call to Dior had produced a wine-colored silk
blouse, tan suede trousers that fit her like a second
skin, and a pair of high-heeled, dark-brown
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Western boots. I knew the bill would cause a few
ripples when it reached the AXE accounting de-
partment, but it was worth it. Lauren not only
looked different now, but her whole attitude had
changed since this afternoon's love-making. Her
shaking and mood-swings had stopped; now she
smiled often and had even laughed twice during
dinner. I knew she still wasn't over the shock of the
last two days and that she probably never would
be. The horrors were buried somewhere just below
the surface and sooner or later, they would rise
again to haunt her.
"You look terrific," I told her.
"Merci, Monsieur. Now that I'm so beautifully
turned out, the least you can do is take me out for
the evening. A new form of what you call 'protec-
tive custody,' " she added with a wide, provocative
smile.
"I'm sorry, Lauren, but I have something very
important to take care of. Something that just can't
wait. I'll make arrangements for someone to stay
here with you until I get back; I shouldn't be gone
more than a few hours."
"No," she said with quiet force. Having spoken
that single word, her full lips formed a hard, stub- •
born line while her sea-colored eyes stared back at I
me defiantly. "Either I'm going with you," she
continued, "or I'm going home—where I'm sure
the gendarmes still have somebody waiting for me. i
I know you wouldn't have any problem stopping
me, but I'll try just the same. I just don't think I'
could stand being- left alone tonight, and I'm not
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talking about some goon you'll bring in to keep me
company. Please, Nick," she said more softly,
"take me with you."
In a way, I should have seen it coming. After
what she'd been through it was only natural that I
would become someone to cling to, someone she
wouldn't want to let go of too soon. That's the
trouble with my business—no time and no emotion
allowed for personal relationships.
Tonight's job was an easy one with not much
risk involved. Since we had so little on the three
models, I'd decided to break into the Agency
Castel for a look at their files. Along with the basic
background information, they were also likely to
contain lists of their recent bookings, including
who had employed them and what foreign coun-
tries they had visited for photo sessions. The pro-
fession was a perfect cover for an agent or courier.
And the files might help me tie one or all of them
to the terrorist assassinations.
I could take Lauren with me. Since she worked
for the agency, her knowledge of the layout would
be helpful. As far as keeping her protected went,
she might be better off with me. It went against
everything in the rule book, but then I'd never real-
ly followed it anyway.
I turned away, heading for the other room where
I could strap on Wilhelmina, Hugo, and Pierre in
privacy. "l hope that outfit comes with a jacket," I
called back over my shoulder, "because it looks
like we're in for some rain."
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Chapter Six
It was pouring by the time we reached our destina-
tion. The modeling agency was located on the
Avenue Elysée Reclus in a corner building
overlooking the carefully groomed gardens of the
Champ de Mars. The building itself was a turn-of-
the-century private residence with a limestone
faqade and heavy, cast-iron grill work covering
the street-level windows. Lauren had told me that
the agency occupied all four floors; she knew that.
they didn't employ a night watchman and she I
didn't think that the place was rigged with an alarm
system. But then, we'd be finding out the answer to
that one soon enough.
Lauren and I were standing in a doorway on the
other side of the avenue. With our arms around-
each other, we looked like two typical Parisian lov-
ers who didn't give a damn about the weather. I
held her so that had a clear, unobstructed view of
the agency. In the twenty minutes that had passed
since our arrival, the windows had remained dark'
and no one had either come or gone through the
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THE PARISIAN AFFAIR
arched double doors that formed the main en-
trance.
"This is nice," Lauren whispered, "but can't we
go in now? I'm starting to get cold."
"In another minute," said, suppressing an urge
to laugh. I don't think this was quite the evening
out she'd expected. I drew her closer to me, softly
stroking the back of her neck. She'd shown no sur-
prise when I'd told her that we were going to be
breaking into her employer's offices. In fact, she'd
said it sounded like fun.
Traffic on the avenue was light. I watched as a
battered green Citroen passed by, the twin head-
lights dimmed by the wind-swept rain. When I
heard it turning onto Rue Harispe, I decided that
now was as good a time as any.
"Allons, " I said quietly. ' 'If we don't run you're
going to get drenched. But watch your step; I don't
want you twisting an ankle. We may have some
real running to do on the way out."
Lauren slipped her arm through mine and with
our heads down we sprinted across the rain-slick
cobblestones. The next part was the hardest. For at
least a minute, we would be silhouetted by the
overhead light, with no way of hiding from the flics
who frequently cruised the area in their small
black-and-white Renaults.
"Stand in front of me," I told Lauren, "facing
the street as if you were waiting for someone."
There were no traces of an alarm system on either
the door or the frame. With my set of picks in
hand, I knelt down behind Lauren and began to
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NICK CARTER
probe thc lock. It was nothing special, a standard
cylinder arrangement that any amateur could have
opened with a few hours of training. I slipped in
another pick, gave it a slight turn, and heard the
metallic click of the tumblers falling into place. The
door eased open at the touch of my hand.
"Let's get inside," I said, pushing Lauren in
ahead of me. I slid in behind her, relocked the
door, and took out the pen-sized flashlight I'd
brought along.
The building may have been old, but inside the
place was ultramodern. I played the narrow beam
of light over the reception area, illuminating a
glass-and-chrome desk, matching chairs, and an
abstract bronze sculpture nearly as tall as I was.
Except for a small table stacked with fashion mag-
azines, there was nothing to indicate that this was
one of the top modeling agencies in the business.
"This is just to impress the clients," Lauren said
as though she had read my thoughts. "The real
work takes place upstairs. That's where the files
are, too, on the second floor."
"Fine, we'll take the stairs; elevators make too
much noise. And stay a few feet behind me on the
way up—we're still not sure there isn't anyone else
in the building."
The staircase was narrow and winding. I turned
off the flashlight and we made our way up slowly,
staying close to the wall in case we hit a creaky
tread. When we reached the top, I paused and sur-
veyed the shadow-filled room.
"Okay," I said, flicking the flashlight back on.
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"Show mc where the files are."
Lauren took my hand and lcd me past a long
row of desks. Unlike the reception area, there were
pictures everywhere—some framed, some merely
tacked up on corkboard. Caught for a second in
the flashlight's beam, they seemed to smile back at
me—poised, beautiful and seductive.
"This is the file room," Lauren said, leading me
through a doorway. "There aren't any windows, so
if you want to shut the door, I can put on the
light."
"Go ahead," I told her. Lauren flicked the
switch and I blinked my eyes to readjust them to
the glare from thc overhead neon florescent light-
ing. The small room contained nothing but three
walls of gray-metal filing cabinets, a scarred oak
table, and two chairs. None of the file drawers were
locked, so it took me little more than a minute to
locate the three folders I wanted.
"Who are they?" asked Lauren, peering over my
shoulder.
"Just some women I'm interested in."
"Bulle merde, " she said with a quiet laugh.
But I was interested in the three photographs
spread out on the table before me. They were
portrait shots, in black and white, and the only
word to describe thcm was stunning. Each of the
women was incredibly beautiful in a different way;
together, they were almost too perfect to be real.
Christine Dalton, Gail Huntington, and Ann-
. as difficult as it was to accept,
Marie Michaels, .
one of them was probably a ruthless, cold-blooded
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