“How many people were involved in the escape?” Again, it was Jeremy who thought of the question.

“Four, including myself.”

“What happened?”

“We were betrayed. Just before we got to the border, a search party found us. The others had gone on ahead. I tried to buy them some time. I was shot. The soldiers left me for dead—and so did the others. To this day I don’t know how they did it, but they got away.”

Jeremy had paled. “And you?”

Mac patted out another cigarette. “I was found by some Hungarians making their way to Austria. They brought me to a nearby village, and I was hidden and nursed back to health by an old widow—or that’s the story I was told, at least. I remember very little. I nearly died, Jeremy. There was no hospital, no medicine. If I’d been caught by the Russians...well, God only knows what they’d have done. Certainly they could have made great political hay with my presence there.”

“But you weren’t found.”

“No.”

“And you’re positive this ‘mad monk’ is the one who betrayed you?”

“There’s no other explanation.”

Jeremy nodded. “But you got out.”

“I was able to escape across the border the following March.” He lit his cigarette, dragged deep, exhaled at the ceiling. “By then, the Soviets had mined the border and there were regular patrols—it was even more treacherous. When I returned to the West, my career was in ruins, and as far as I was concerned, my life was over. I went out to San Diego. I met Elaine, and she gave me a new life. I started over. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”

Ashley didn’t believe that for a minute and, loosening the grip on her stomach, managed to ask, “Who were the three you got out of Hungary?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say.”

Jeremy exploded. “Mac, you haven’t explained anything. If Bartholomew Wakefield is the mad monk, how did he get out of Hungary? When? How did he get hold of Ashley and David as infants? Who the hell are they? Why did he choose to raise them? Why has he been living the life of a simple farmer for thirty years?”

“Thirty years ago, Jeremy, I gave up any hope of finding the man who betrayed me. I gave up the idea of revenge, of bringing him to justice. I satisfied my conscience by telling myself he was dead and I would have to forget the past and build a new life. So that’s what I did. Then I saw his picture in You magazine.”

“Mac.” Jeremy regarded his friend seriously, closely. “Mac, are you sure?”

Mac smiled nastily. “You don’t easily forget the face of the man who sent you into a hell that only by the grace of God and the love of a good woman you escaped.”

“All right. So he’s the mad monk. So he betrayed you. You must have some clue about what he wants out of this, who he is—”