“No. No message. Damn—” Lamartine broke off; the line crackled. “She can’t call me back. I have to go. Look—if you do see her, will you tell her I’ll call again this afternoon? Around three or four?”

“Fine. I’ll try to get that message to her…” Rowland began, then realized he was listening to the dial tone.

The effort of these lies had not left him unmoved. He felt a moment’s self-disgust, then anxiety. Was Lamartine in Sarajevo, or elsewhere in Bosnia? Could this call mean he was planning on coming back?

In the bedroom Gini was sitting up in bed, her face white, her eyes wide and dark.

“It was Pascal, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It was.” Rowland hesitated. “Did he know you were coming here?”

“No.” She had begun to tremble. “He must have called the hotel in Amsterdam. He might have called Max. Once he knew I was in Paris, he’d probably guess I’d be in Lindsay’s hotel. He—I couldn’t reach him from Amsterdam. He isn’t in Sarajevo. He’s gone back to Mostar—”

“Gini, don’t.” She was now shivering uncontrollably. Rowland put his arms around her. “Gini, listen. It’s all right. You heard what I said? I had to lie…”

“I know you did. I could hear some of it. It’s just—you lied so well. Oh, Christ…”

“Gini, listen to me. He accepted what I said. He’s going to call back around three or four. I’ll have you in another room within the hour, I promise you. It’s all right—we have time. Let me call the desk. I’ll ask about rooms. I’ll get some coffee sent up.”

Rowland reached for the telephone. Gini watched him, her eyes wide with anxiety and pain. She was shivering violently and seemed unable to move or speak.

“There,” Rowland said, turning back from the telephone. “The coffee’s on its way. They think they may be able to find a single room somewhere, there’s some guest who may be checking out a day early. They’ll call back. Gini, listen. Get up. Take a shower. Get dressed. By the next time he calls, we—”

Rowland stopped. She could not meet his eyes; she crossed her arms over her breasts. Gently, Rowland took her hand.

“Gini, don’t,” he said in a quiet voice. “You’re making it very hard for me. If you cry—you can see how that affects me. If we can just—if we get on with our work. That is still what you want?”

“It has to be. It has to be…” She gave a low cry and then wrenched her hand away. “I don’t know what I want anymore. I don’t know who I am. I can’t think…”

She buried her face in her hands. Rowland hesitated, fighting the temptation to speak, then he finally said what he had been wanting to say for hours. Within the words a resentment was contained, he realized, an anger at Lamartine that had been building for days and which he could no longer suppress.

“Gini,” he said, “I don’t sleep with married women. For better or worse, I make that a rule. You’re not married. You have a choice.”