Angelo shrugged. “Maybe when we get old, we'll forget, too.”

Suddenly, MacLean felt like the staked goat in his nightmare. A cold emptiness settled in his stomach. He excused himself and went back to his room, where he poured himself a stiff shot of ouzo.

How easy it would have been. They would have climbed to the top of the rock and asked him to pose for a photo near the edge. One shove and down he would go.

Another accident. Another dead scientist.

No heavy lifting. Not even for a sweet old history teacher.

He dug into the plastic bag he used for his dirty laundry. Buried at the bottom was the envelope full of yellowing news clips which he spread on the table.

The headlines were different, but the subject of each story was the same.

SCIENTIST DIES IN AUTO ACCIDENT. SCIENTIST KILLED IN HIT-AND-RUN.

SCIENTIST KILLS WIFE, SELF. SCIENTIST DIES IN SKIING ACCIDENT.

Every one of the victims had worked on the Project. He reread the note: “Flee or die!” Then he put the Herald Tribune clip in with the

others and went to the monastery's reception desk. Angelo was going through a pile of reservations.

“I must leave,” MacLean said.

Angelo looked crestfallen. “I'm very sorry. How soon?”

“Tonight.”

“Impossible. There is no hydrofoil or bus until tomorrow.” , “Nevertheless, I must leave and I'm asking you to help me. I can make it worth your while.”

A sad look came into the monk's eyes. “I would do this for friendship, not money.”

“I'm sorry,” MacLean said. “I'm a little upset.”

Angelo was not an unintelligent man.

“This is because of the Americans?”

“Some bad people are after me. These Americans may have been sent to find me. I was stupid and told them I was going on the hydrofoil. I'm not sure if they came alone. They may have someone watching at the gate.”

Angelo nodded. “I can take you to the mainland by boat. You will need a car.”

“I was hoping you could arrange to rent one for me,” MacLean said. He handed Angelo his credit card, which he had tried not to use before, knowing it could be traced.

Angelo called the car rental office on the mainland. He spoke a few minutes and hung up. “Everything is taken care of. They will leave the keys in the car.”

“Angelo, I don't know how I can repay you.”

“No payment. Give a big gift next time you're in church.”

MacLean had a light dinner at a secluded cafe, where he found himself glancing with apprehension at the other tables. The evening passed without event. On the way back to the monastery, he kept looking over his shoulder.

The wait was agonizing. He felt trapped in his room, but he reminded himself that the walls were at least a foot thick and the door could withstand a battering ram. A few minutes after midnight, he heard a soft knock on the door.