He withdrew his hand, and before Jean-Michel saw that he was not holding a cigarette lighter, it was too late. The compact FN Model Baby Browning pistol spit twice, once to the left of Jean-Michel, once to the right. The bang was loud, drowning out the distinctive thunk as the bullet passed through the forehead of each bodyguard.

As the car turned left, both bodies slumped toward the driver's side. His ears buzzing, Jean Michel made a long, frightened face as Henri flopped against him. Brownish-red blood pooled in the small, neat wound and spilled over. It streamed down the bridge of the dead man's nose. Half screaming, half-moaning, Jean-Michel used a shoulder to nudge the body against the door. Then he looked at the dead Yves, whose bloody trickle had broken into spidery red lines on his face. Finally, Jean-Michel turned terror-wide eyes on Richter.

"I'll have them buried in the woods when we arrive," said Richter. He spat the cigarette to the floor. "By the way, I don't smoke."

Still holding the gun, the German leaned forward. He removed the pistols in Yves's and Henri's shoulder holsters and placed one of the guns on the seat to his right. He examined the other.

"An F1 Target Pistol," Richter said. "Army issue. Were these former army men?"

Jean-Michel nodded.

"That would explain their incredibly poor reflexes," Richter said. "The French military never did know how to train soldiers to fight. Not like the German military."

He set the guns down, patted Jean-Michel's chest and pockets to make sure he had no weapons, then sat back. He crossed his legs and put his hands on his knee.

"Details," Ricther said. "If you see them, smell them, hear them, remember them, then at worst you will survive and at best you will succeed. And trust," he said darkly, "is something you should never give. I made the mistake of being honest with you, and I paid for it."

"You tortured me!" Jean-Michel practically screamed. Jean-Michel was unnerved by the presence of the dead men, but he was rattled even more by the cavalier way with which Richter had dispatched them. The Frenchman fought the impulse to throw himself from the door of the limousine. He was M. Dominique's representative. He must try to maintain his composure, his dignity.

"Do you really think that's why Dominique attacked me?" Richter asked. He smiled for the first time, seemed almost paternal now. "Be wise. Dominique attacked me to put me in my place. And he has. He reminded me that I belong on top of the ladder, not in the middle."

"On top?" Jean-Michel said. The man's gall was astounding. Indignation helped Jean-Michel forget his fear, his vulnerability. "You are on top of nothing but two corpses"-- he shook his hands toward either side-- "for which you will be made to account."